Blow, blow, thou winter wind
by Hades Lord of the Dead
Summary: December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness 2019. Rated T for safety. WIP.
1. Locomotive

**AN** The challenge begins! Thanks to everyone who has agreed to take part this year. If you're interested in taking part, please do get in touch.

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**Content warnings for this chapter:** Discussions of suicide.

* * *

**From Winter Winks 221: Locomotive**

"It's a gruesome one," Gregson cautioned, as he led doctor and detective past the station master with a nod. "Was the signalman who found him. Well. What's left of him."

The sight was indeed a gruesome one, enough to turn even Doctor Watson's stomach, although the only indication of this was the slight tightening of his jaw. You get used to that kind of thing, Gregson supposed, in the army.

"He was pulled under the wheels?" For once Mr Holmes chose to keep his distance, looking pointedly away from the gore.

"Driver says he jumped out, too quick for him to stop the train. Signalman saw the train stop, went to investigate and, well..." Gregson waved a hand vaguely. "There it is. His name's Thomas Sykes."

"The politician?" Watson, who had, in contrast to Holmes, been examining the body, looked up in surprise."Ex-military?"

Gregson nodded. "Word was he was about to be knighted. Had a wife, children, big house, the lot. So you can see why we're suspicious, Mr Holmes. Perhaps he had a rival, someone who pushed him."

"Watson?"

"He wasn't pushed." Watson said shortly, returning to stand beside Holmes. "I'm afraid your theory is incorrect inspector, and the driver was right in what he saw. Mr Sykes took his own life."

"But the mortician said it was impossible to tell!"

"Hardly impossible," Holmes interrupted calmy. "The angle of the body and where it landed beneath the train suggest much."

"It is much harder to push someone legs first; if he had been pushed you wouldn't been able to identify the body, for his entire top half would have been pulled under."

"There you have it, Inspector." Holmes turned to go, Watson following as he always did. "Perhaps now you can turn your attention to something that needs it."

* * *

"Of course there is still a mystery to be solved," Holmes announced later that evening, continuing as he often did, a conversation that anyone else would have thought to have concluded hours previous. "A successful man, a politician, family and wealth. _Why _did he do it?"

Watson set aside his book. "There is the question of why he did it, yes. But I find myself wondering more why he chose to do it in the way he did. He was ex-army; surely he had a firearm of some sort?"

"It sounds almost as though you've thought it through."

Watson raised a sardonic eyebrow. "There are no published statistics on such things, but I can assure you that suicide rates among former soldiers are high."

"My apologies, Watson," Holmes murmured, duly chastised. "And I suppose in answer to your question, he had a family. Perhaps he did not wish for one of them to find him."

"Perhaps." Watson hesitated. "Holmes, your black moods-"

"Not as black as all that, I assure you Watson."

"But if they were-"

"Then you would be the first to know, I assure you."

Watson watched Holmes silently from across the room, surveying him with a keen eye. "Alright then." He took up his book again, and lapsed back into a peaceful silence.

He entirely missed the fond grin Holmes directed at him before he, too, returned to the experiment he had abandoned in favour of their fleeting conversation.


	2. Flicker

**From sirensbane: Flicker**

"Watson, do you know why you are so bad at cards?"

He may not have seen the thoughts from reading my face, as he was so adept at doing, for my back was turned. However I was certain my silence spoke more loudly of my guilt than anything else could. I turned, nevertheless, to face him from where I had been reaching for my chequebook which I left out of habit in the top drawer of my writing desk.

"I have no idea, Holmes."

"Then I shall enlighten you." He pointed to his eye. "You have a flicker."

"Excuse me?"

"Yes. A definitive _flicker _of the eyebrow when you are bluffing, or lying, or otherwise being dishonest. You have no gift for deception, I am afraid."

"I have never lied to you," I offered in my defence. "Merely-"

"Bent the truth?" He smiled impishly. "No need for apology, dear fellow. But Lestrade has just sent a telegram with what looks an intriguing case. Perhaps that might offer a better alternative to the betting tables, this evening at least?"

I glanced again to the open drawer, my depleted chequebook within. "I suppose so. Yes."

"Your eyebrow is flickering again."

"You cannot even see my face!"

"But I can see your reflection, in the very corner of the mantelpiece mirror. What is troubling you?"

I shook my head. "Nothing." But I could see that flicker now, faced as I was to the same mirror in which Holmes had seen me, and now he had pointed it out I could spot it myself. Beside my own face I saw his as he stood, smirking, behind me. "Oh, very well! This evening is one thing, Holmes, but once the case is finished? The temptation remains."

"Then might I offer a solution?" He came now to look at me direct, no longer in the form of a reflection, and reached for the drawer that held my chequebook. "What if I keep this, for a little while? You can still ask me for it, of course."

"Like a schoolboy begging his parents for pocket money?"

Holmes barked a laugh. " I should hope not! No, no, I need not know the amount or even what it is for. Simply say you need your chequebook and I shall give it to you - flicker or not."

I thought on this for a moment. This added layer of shame, that of Holmes knowing exactly where I wasted my money, might prove the extra, vital barrier to my vice. It was worth a go, at least.

"Very well then." I handed him the chequebook. "Now, you mentioned a case?"

He tucked the book away, the rest of the evening was spent in concentrated efforts to solve a bank robbery, and for many years afterward I did not gamble at all.


	3. Trauma - Part 1

**From Michael JG Meathook: After suffering a traumatic brain injury, Sherlock has to face the possibility of losing his capability as the world's greatest detective.**

* * *

"It could have been worse." That is what the doctors tell me, over and over, as I recover slowly in the Charing Cross ward. "You could easily have died. It's a miracle you didn't succumb to a coma."

Watson, the only doctor whose word I have ever trusted, doesn't demand gratitude from me. He says only,

"You may yet recover. With time and work..."

"What if I don't?"

"Then we shall have to think on what comes next."

* * *

It takes 8 months before I return to Baker Street, and still my mind is not what it was. I am less exacting about my former "brain attic"; any memory, logic or knowledge is sacred. Slowly, my mind begins to coalesce. Lestrade brings some simple robberies and I solve them from my armchair - I am still Sherlock Holmes after all - but it isn't the same.

* * *

My hand eye coordination is shot. I miss the violin, and my chemistry table, which I can only use for the simplest, safest of experiments. Watson, temporarily and with his wife's blessing, has moved back into the upstairs room to keep an eye on me and aid in my recovery. When I make a half hearted joke about his second career as a nursemaid, he reminds me that general practitioner is already a second career. He used to be an army surgeon, after all.

He leaves for work and I think on his own, long recovery. His leg and shoulder still pain him to this day and he bears it with patience I cannot seem to muster. I resolve to try harder and count my blessings (Watson among them).

* * *

Mary Watson suffers a miscarriage. It isn't too serious, having come very early in the pregnancy, or so Watson assures both Mrs Hudson and I.

"In truth, I am glad," he confides in me later that evening over brandy and cigars. He has had to light mine for me, as it has been a 'bad day', and for whatever reason I could not get my extremities to cooperate no matter how hard I tried. "I have had my doubts over whether she could bear a child to full term. She seems so frail these days..."

"You should be with her," I suggest gently. "And I... I must leave."

"Leave? Leave where? Leave London?"

"Leave the country." I don't know when this idea has formed, but it must have been brewing somewhere in my broken mind for quite some time. "The cases I can work bring me no enjoyment. I am not my brother; a life of inanition holds no appeal."

"So what would you do instead?"

"Travel."

Watson inhales on his cigar, in deep thought. "What about the bad days? When you cannot light your own pipe?"

I shrug. "I shall not smoke. I have money enough to travel comfortably. And you have other priorities."

"You know it is no burden-"

"But it burdens _me_." I stub out my cigar, trembling fingers a stark reminder of my weakness. "I am grateful, Watson, truly. For your support, for all you have done. But I must live independently. I must forge a new life for myself."

"I could come with you."

"Your wife-"

He raises a hand. "To begin with, I mean. Not permanently. I could join you for, say, the first month of your travels. Where did you think of going to first?"

"Switzerland."

"Switzerland it is then. If," he adds sternly, "you are certain this is what you really want?"

"It is," I tell him with earnest fervour. Now the idea has taken hold, I myself am quite taken with it. We toast to our plan, and to the next chapter of our separate lives.

"Who knows," Watson remarks, "perhaps the fresh mountain air of the alps may do you some good."

* * *

"Moriarty?" I scoff as we sit overlooking the great Reichenbach fall. "Really, Watson?"

"He is technically the reason for your departure-"

"But my _death? _He was just some lowlife who got lucky with a piece of lead piping." The spot he struck with said piping twinged as I remembered. "Hardly a dramatic ending."

"Oh I would rewrite him," Watson assures me. "A criminal mastermind, a Napolean of crime... You shall die, locked together, tumbling over the great Reichenbach fall."

"And where are you in this?"

"Duped by a simple ruse," he responds far too cheerily, handing over a roughly hewn sandwich from our picnic. "A medical emergency, a fake telegram to draw me away."

I scoff again, but accept the sandwich, my hands hardly trembling at all. A good day, today.

"It is dramatic," he accepts with equanimity, "but it will be sure to get the public off your back. You shall have the anonymity you desire."

"Oh very well," I huff. "But be very kind in your portrayal of me! I shan't have a funeral or eulogy or any of that, so this will have to serve as both."

* * *

I can just imagine the twinkle in Watson's eye, as I read his latest missive in Germany.

_Dear Holmes, _

_Hope this was the sort of thing you had hoped for. _

_Watson _

It is a copy of his latest, last Strand publication - The Adventure of the Final Problem. I skim most of it, romanticised drivel as it is, but my eyes stick on the last line: "the best and the wisest man whom I have ever known". I wonder if this is a eulogy after all. A eulogy of the man I was before the accident.

Watson would never have intended it as such, of course, and I have no wish to offend him. So I fire back a hasty letter of my own.

_Dear Watson,_

_I suppose it will do._

_Holmes_


	4. Trauma - Part 2

**A/N: **Sorry for the sudden ending to this one, but I really just ran out of steam... Continuation from the previous response.

* * *

**From W. Y. Traveller: A letter**

* * *

As I travel East, Watson's wife suffers two more miscarriages. He mentions this only in passing in the letters he sends, between talk of his practice, London society and his new work as a police surgeon. Somehow I never find time to respond. I mean to send my sympathies, my solidarity, but it feels hollow. Life in London seems distant. By the time I arrive in Lhasa, communication has ceased altogether.

* * *

The practice of the Tibetan monks, Lojong, reshapes my mind. The twin practice, Luejong, does the same for my body. Over the two years I spend among them, my tremors cease and my hand eye coordination returns. I do not feel as I was; I feel new. I feel grown.

* * *

Through Providence or otherwise, a letter arrives for me just as I mark the third year anniversary of my so-called "death". It is from my brother, dated two months previous.

_My dearest brother, _

_I hope you shan't be offended if I do not waste time with pleasantries, or indeed on enquiring as to the details of your travels. I pray you are well, but write you with both news and an urgent request. _

_Mrs Mary Watson passed away last night. As you may know she had suffered six miscarriages, and unfortunately never recovered from the last of these. Repeated infection eventually led to sepsis and she was pronounced dead in the early hours of this morning by her own husband, your dear friend. _

_Go to him, Sherlock. I suspect you will not need persuading in this matter, but if you do, then you need only remember the many occasions on which he has assisted you in your own times of need. Do not fail him now. _

_Your brother, _

_Mycroft Holmes _

* * *

We meet, a month and a half later, in our old rooms in Baker Street.

"My dear fellow," he grasps me immediately in a firm hug, then holds me out at arms length to observe me properly, announcing with evident approval, "You look healthy."

He looks different, but not so different as I expected. Not so different as I feel. Watson has always possessed a sturdy, dependable quality. A hidden core of resilience, unerodable. I had thought it to be formed during his army years, but perhaps it was some event of his childhood that had forged him this way. Perhaps it is simply something innate.

Seeing him now, with the gifts of my time away, I feel I measure up to this strength in a way I never have before. I grasp his hand between two of my own.

"I am so very sorry for your terrible loss."

His face crumples at that, in a way that is painful to behold. He takes a moment to gather himself and, when he does so, his voice is thick, "Thank you, Holmes. And I apologise, for I am somewhat more prone to emotional outbursts than I might otherwise be."

"Entirely understandable." I gesture him to his armchair, going to my own and lighting my pipe as I do so. Watson notes the action and the ease with which I perform it, smiling softly.

"Your time away has done you good."

"But I was gone too long."

He does not pretend not to know what I mean. "It might have been nice to hear from you, know you were well. This last year..." He exhales shakily. "I could have done with some good news. But you needed to focus on your recovery. I do not blame you for that. And I never imagined that Mary..." He swallows. "No one could have known."

"You have too much goodness in you," I inform him, and he laughs aloud at the blunt tone with which I deliver the compliment. "When I left, I did it for entirely the wrong reasons. I was frightened to be vulnerable, dependant on another. So I ran."

He levels a hard gaze at me. "Then I made a mistake in letting you. We're neither of us perfect, Holmes."

"Nonetheless," I meet his gaze, calmly and openly, with my own, "I am still sorry."

The rest of the evening, night and early morning is spent deep in conversation, catching each other up on what has happened in our time apart. It is only the sunrise that interrupts us and, when Watson's cacophonous yawn interrupts him mid-sentence, I wave him upstairs to bed.

At the living room door, he turns back. "Holmes... I assume it was Mycroft who called you back here?"

I nod.

"I thought so. He caught me in a- a weaker moment, after Mary's death." He clears his throat awkwardly. "But I understand if you wish to return to Tibet. I shall manage."

"Go to bed, Watson," I instruct him firmly. "I have no desire to be anywhere but here."

He looks doubtful, but follows my order and trudges upstairs to his old bedroom.

* * *

It takes little persuading for Watson to move back in. We spend a depressing day clearing out his Kensington home and that evening I use the excuse of needing to practice my so long untouched violin to play all his favourite tunes. He watches me knowingly, but says nothing.

* * *

"People really will believe anything, won't they?" I am glancing over the latest story in The Strand - The Adventure of the Empty House. "Who is this Colonel Moran?"

"Oh, he's real enough," Watson calls over his shoulder from where he is ensconced at his writing desk. My return has prompted a flurry of creativity from him and he has been writing in every spare moment between our cases. "I didn't tell you about that? You would have found it interesting Holmes. We didn't capture him with a wax bust of course, just a simple arrest although he fought like a devil..."

I snort. "Your imagination works in a strange way, Watson."

"To your credit," he points out, and picks up a sheaf of letters from a corner of his desk, waving them in demonstration. "You've seen these, I assume?"

I lay The Strand aside. "I have."

"And?"

I walk over to extract one letter in particular from his hefty collection. "And this one looks promising. From ex-president Murillo. Have you heard of his recent troubles, Watson?"

"I have indeed." He has turned fully now from his desk, attention piqued. "You think you can help return the missing papers?"

"I am certain of it."


	5. Alarm Clock

**From ThatSassyCaptain: Adjustable alarm clocks have been around since 1847, so why does Holmes insist on wake-up calls the morning of? Give someone a rude awakening!**

* * *

"A clock?"

"An _alarm_ clock, Holmes. You set the time you want to wake up - like so - and then it rings to wake you up - like _so._"

"Is this about the other morning?"

"What? Of course not! I just thought-

"You know I could have dodged."

"I know, I know. But why take the risk? Now, instead, if you need me to wake up at a particular time we can use this."

"I'm not going to use it."

"Oh for heaven's sake! Whyever not?"

"It was the element of surprise, Watson! I could take you in a fair fight!"

"Of course you could, but why not use the clock just to avoid-"

"I am _not _using it."

"...how is the eye?"

"Healing nicely, thank you."

"It's an impressive bruise."

"'Impressive'? Are you _complimenting _your own handiwork?"

"I was in the army Holmes. I thought you were the enemy! If only you had used an alarm clock, I might have punched _that _instead of you."

"So this Christmas gift is really for you, rather than me."

"I am not the one at risk of getting punched, Holmes. Now will you take it?"

"As it is rude to refuse a gift, I will take it. But I will _not _use it."

"Holmes..."

"It is a point of pride, Watson! Next time, I will dodge. Alarm clocked be damned!"

"Ugh fine. On your own head be it."


	6. 22

**From Book girl fan: Write something inspired by a Taylor Swift song.**

* * *

"Here, sign this." Watson thrust a card into my hand, clearly in a rush to get to work just as I was rising for the day. "It's for Wiggins. It's his birthday tomorrow."

"Wiggins?" I inspected the card, squinting a little to read it. Watson had been prodding me to get reading glasses for a few weeks now, and I had to confess he might have a point. "22? Surely not!"

"Time passes quickly, doesn't it?" Watson remarked absent-mindedly, frantically turning over a stack of paper in his search for whatever item was missing from his medical bag. "You know he's joined up with Scotland Yard?"

At this my eyebrows shot up. "I never thought when I met him as a ragged little street urchin he might one day grow into that!"

"Not so ragged any more. Aha!" Watson grabbed a loose bottle under my chemistry table then frowned as he took in its depleted contents. "What, may I ask, were you using my cough syrup for?"

I ignored his question. "22...Goodness how things have changed since I was that age."

"We didn't know each other then," Watson pointed out. "I certainly wouldn't have had to put up with you stealing my medical supplies. Now Holmes, if you're not doing anything today, be a good chap and go to the pharmacist for some new cough syrup? I won't have time between my rounds."

"I'm afraid I shall be engaged on an important investigation today."

He shook his head and went for the door. "You are just as incorrigible as you no doubt were at 22 years old, Holmes."

"Oh Watson!" I called after him, "I could use your assistance tonight, if you are available?"

"Incorrigible!" He called back, and as the door shut behind him I grinned. Perhaps some things never did change.


	7. Journalist

**From ThatSassyCaptain: While "Doctor" Watson is just about as iconic as "Detective" Holmes, what else, if anything, might he have been?**

* * *

"Mr Watson, was it?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Can you explain exactly what it was you were doing in the Duchess's antechamber at the time of the murder?"

I could feel the heat rise to my face, and only hoped I didn't look so obviously untrustworthy as I felt. The Inspector before me, a short rat-faced fellow named Lestrade, had his notebook out and was taking down everything I said. I cleared my throat.

"Well,er-"

"Lestrade?"

I turned my head to the door, where a tall, dark-haired man with a hawk like nose had swept imperiously into the room. Inspector Lestrade looked decidedly put out.

"Mr Holmes," he greeted the man guardedly. "I didn't know you were assisting us with this case."

"The Duchess requested my services." This man - Mr Holmes - turned a pair of sharp, interrogating eyes upon me. "And I am afraid if you think this man is a suspect, Lestrade, you are entirely mistaken. He is a journalist."

My mouth went dry at that. "How could you possibly know-"

"Ink-stained fingers, and shirt cuffs." He gestured to both of these dismissively. "And the outline of a small, square object in your jacket pocket - a notebook, I believe?"

I frowned. "But by that logic I could be an author of fiction."

Those insightful eyes widened a little, and Inspector Lestrade barked a laugh.

"Well, he's got you there Mr Holmes."

"As it happens," Holmes sniffed, "I have read an article of yours. On the Burke and Hare case, in The Aberdeen Chronicle?"

"You have?" This time I was the one surprised. With a name like 'John Watson', I didn't often get recognition for my work. "What is it you do, Mr Holmes?"

Lestrade cleared his throat pointedly, snapping his notebook shut. "Seeing as the Duchess has requested your services personally Mr Holmes, I'll leave you to it."

"I'll be sure to consult with you regularly, Lestrade."

"See that you do," the little detective grumbled, and left, perhaps to question the other guests who had been at the party at the time of the Duke's murder. Holmes watched him go, and I fancied I saw his lip twitch in a peculiar sort of half-smile.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes and I am a consulting detective," he answered my earlier question, sticking out a hand. "The last and highest court of appeal in detection."

"And my name is John Watson." I took his hand and shook it. "A journalist, as you already know."

"Perhaps we might continue this discussion in a more conducive environment?" Holmes suggested, sweeping his gaze across me. I felt, suddenly, very exposed. "Simpsons, on the Strand, have you tried it?"

"I fear it is somewhat out of my price range," I told him, although I fancied he had already figured that out. "I have met with bad luck recently."

"My treat," he insisted and, despite my protestations, continued, "I am certain the information you provide me will be more than worth the cost, Mr Watson."

I did have information, and had wondered about telling the police everything I knew. But the information regarded those in high places, the murdered duke and his widowed duchess included; my recent bad luck was due to my determination in pursuing this particular story, and as a result I had been fired from my post on _The Chronicle._

And yet, there was something about this Holmes fellow, something in his direct manner, that invited my trust.

"You really think I can be of assistance?" I asked warily.

"I am certain of it," he answered without hesitation. "It may sound strange, but I fancy there is something of the detective about you, Mr Watson."

"I suppose journalism is not so different from the work of a detective," I shrugged. "Both careers seek to find the truth, in one form or another."

Again he looked somewhat taken aback at my insight. "Indeed. Now, shall we?"

He gestured me out the door and, with a deep breath, I decided to trust and follow his direction.


	8. Singing

**From PowerOfPens: Holmes can sing surprisingly well.**

* * *

The wound I received at the hands of 'Killer Evans' during that case I later titled _The Adventure of the Three Garridebs_ was a little more serious than I let on to my readers when I wrote up the story for The Strand. My life was never in any danger, but the journey home proved difficult. I had, with Holmes's assistance and coat, fashioned a makeshift bandage to stem the blood flow, but it was painful going.

"We should have let Bradstreet call a surgeon," Holmes huffed, helping support the majority of my weight from the hansom cab to the front door of 221B. "It looks a lot of blood."

In truth I was starting to feel a little dizzy, but I knew I would be fine once I could lie down with a stiff drink.

"I can stitch it myself," I panted, using Holmes's shoulder to lever myself with a hop over our front step. "Just need to... get inside..."

We made it upstairs, after some time, and I collapsed shakily onto the sofa, pausing a moment to gather myself.

"Watson?" Holmes hovered nervously nearby, still looking as pale as he had in the moments after I had been shot. "Are you sure we hadn't best call another doctor?"

I shook my head. "Fetch me my bag Holmes."

He pursed his lips, but did as I instructed, dropping the bag by my side. I pulled out all the necessary equipment to stitch myself up, and asked him for a drink of something strong.

"And get something for yourself, too," I added sternly, spotting his trembling fingers as he handed me the glass.

He tutted. "Really Watson, I am not the one who was shot tonight!"

"Grazed," I corrected, clearing away the blood. It looked a sight, but would be easy enough to stitch. Although I did feel dreadfully tired...

"Why don't I do it, Watson? I have some experience you know, not so much as a medical man perhaps..."

I smiled wryly and set to disinfecting the wound with a wince. "I have seen your attempts at stitches Holmes. I shall manage well enough on my own."

He dropped into his armchair wringing his hands in agitation as he watched me begin.

"You don't want a painkiller?"

"Not yet," I murmured, concentrating on threading the needle. "I need my mind clear."

A few more moments of silence, as he watched me proceed. Then, "There must be something I can do to help!"

"Perhaps some music?"

"Music?" He looked nonplussed. "How will that help?"

"Your violin playing always relaxes me. Why not play something, one of my favourites?"

He looked aghast. "But my violin is being restrung, Watson!"

"It's alright Holmes," I told him gently. "It was only a suggestion. Really I am fine. I have had to do worse than this."

"It looks bad enough," he muttered, glancing over to the bloody graze on my thigh with a barely concealed wince. "Perhaps... Watson, I could _sing _something."

I had been about to insert the needle, but nearly dropped it at this suggestion.

"In my youth, I was an active member of the choir."

For a few moments I could do nothing but gape.

"Watson, you're bleeding..."

"Oh!" I cleared away the welling blood and disinfected the wound again. Despite the odd revelation, I knew I must concentrate if I wanted to finish this myself. "Look, Holmes, er... sing if you want to. But I must do this now or I shall fall asleep where I sit."

For the first few tugs of the thread, we sat in silence. And then, to my utter amazement, Holmes began to sing. He was halting, hesitant, and definitely no Nellie Melba - but he could certainly carry a tune!

"Good Lord," I whispered in amazement, eyes still on the stitches in my own thigh. I had intended not to interrupt, but Holmes was clearly listening for any signs of distress.

"Are you alright, Watson?"

"Yes, yes." I finished off the stitches, tying the thread off and laying back to rest for a moment. My head was swimming. "You are full of hidden talents."

"This one shall remain hidden." I would have jumped, for his voice was suddenly far closer than it had been before, but I was by this point very weary. I felt my legs being lifted onto the sofa and a blanket being settled over me. "It was my parents who forced me to sing in the choir, and I really had no interest."

I hmmed a drowsy reply. "Still, I am honoured to have heard you Holmes."

"Sleep, Watson." I felt a hand at my brow, perhaps checking for the fever that could come from infection. "Hopefully when you wake my violin will be back with us, and things can return to normal."


	9. Baby Reindeer

**From cjnwriter: Young Sherlock rescues a baby reindeer and intends to nurse it back to health. How does his family react?**

* * *

The Holmes family decided that Christmas to holiday in Gare Loch, due to a suggestion from Mrs Holmes's friend that Scotland was beautiful that time of year. Her husband, ever reticent, hadn't argued and so they had travelled there on the 12th December. They arrived to heavy snow and a poorly-heated house, the only respite being that it was a large enough property that Mr and Mrs Holmes's interactions were kept to a minimum. She sewed in the living room whilst he read his papers in the study.

Mealtimes were the only times they were forced to spend together, along with their two sons Sherlock and Mycroft. Sherlock was only six and Mycroft thirteen, although both very intelligent for their age. They did not get their academic intuition from either of their parents.

"I found a baby reindeer t'day."

Sherlock's announcement was met with a resounding silence from his father, a faint smile from his mother and a crinkled brow from his brother.

"She's called Dasher!"

"Oh, that's nice dear," Mrs Holmes said, and called the maid for more tea.

"We don't get reindeer in Scotland," Mycroft said, but then, because his brother rarely lied, "Where did you find her?"

"In the stable, she was hurt!"

"What were you doing there?" Mr Holmes demanded. "That's not a job for you, Sherlock."

Sherlock, sensing his father's impending anger, shrugged mulishly. The conversation was dropped.

* * *

The next day, Mycroft was sitting by the window in his bedroom, reading one of the books he had brought with him on the trip. Unlike his younger brother, he preferred indoor activities to outdoor and when his mother had announced where they were going he knew there would be little to keep him entertained.

Speaking of which, he could see his brother now, with an armful of apples no doubt pilfered from the kitchens. It had stopped snowing for the time being, but the snowbanks were deep and Mycroft observed as Sherlock sunk and tripped, huffing every time he dropped one of his many apples.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and returned to his reading.

* * *

"So, where is she?"

After a week, Mycroft's boredom and curiousity had gotten the better of him, and he had gone to investigate the mystery of his brother's baby reindeer. The stables, however, were bare. Save for a few chewed apple cores.

Sherlock shrugged, throwing his mittened hands wide. "Gone."

"Gone where?"

Sherlock smiled beatifically and pointed to the sky outside. "That way."

"But that doesn't make any sense," Mycroft whined, stomping outside the stable to peer up at the white sky. It looked as though more snow was on its way. "Who ate the apples?"

"Told you! Dasher!" Sherlock shoved one of the cores into Mycroft's hand. "See?"

Mycroft turned the core over and saw what his brother meant - the bite marks couldn't belong to any of the horses, they were too small. But definitely not human.

"Was she still hurt when she left?"

"Her friends got her." Sherlock tottered outside. "C'mon Mycrof', let's play snowballs!"

Mycroft groaned. Little brothers were one of the most frustrating inventions on this earth!


	10. Alternative Living Arrangements

**From ThatSassyCaptain: Due to unforeseen circumstances, Holmes and Watson have been banished from 221B for a week. On such short notice, what do they do?**

* * *

It was early in my association with Sherlock Holmes, not long after the Jefferson Hope case, that I returned home from a meeting with the army pension board to discover the man himself standing outside of our lodgings. He wore a meek, apologetic expression and there were two cases beside him, one of which I recognised as my own.

"I am afraid to tell you that we shall be forced to seek alternative lodgings for the week," he offered by way of explanation. "I grabbed as many of your clothes as I could, for I thought it best to take them out of the smell."

"Smell?"

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I was conducting an experiment you see, highly important to a case I have been working recently, but it uh... well. Exploded."

"Exploded? Oh dear." I was growing used to my friend's peculiar ways and habits, from gunshots in the wall to a jack-knife for correspondence, but this was a first.

"Mrs Hudson informs me that it will take a week to air out the rooms and furniture."

This was not ideal, as I had no other acquaintances in London than Holmes himself. Even Stamford, who had introduced us both, had moved recently to the country. "Well, I suppose the lodging house I stayed before we met..."

"Capital! What was it called?"

"The Chancery Arms."

"Ah yes, I know it," Holmes said, and handed over my bag. "Would you mind if I called on you there in a few days? I have a feeling I may need some help on this case."

I took my bag, somewhat nonplussed. "You mean you don't need a room?"

"Oh I have somewhere I can go - a little bolt-hole," he assured me. "It's small and somewhat grubby, but I shall get my work done easier there. This whole business is rather an irksome distraction."

"Indeed," I answered blandly, deciding not to point out that he had no one to blame for said-distraction but himself. He may have noticed my reticence, however, for he sniffed and said,

"Come, let us hail a hansom and drop you at your lodging house."

* * *

"I will call on you in a few days," he said as I stepped from the cab, "If that is agreeable?"

"Of course."

I waved him away and, just as Holmes's cab had clattered out of sight, a young maid came to place a "No Vacancies" sign into the window.

This was unfortunate. The increase I had requested to my army pension had, that day, been rejected, and I had no working knowledge of London and its hotels. I knew this lodging house to be warm, comfortable and, above all, cheap. Aside from here, I knew of only one alternative.

* * *

The Docklands Mermaid was my first lodging place when I arrived in London. I was, of course, in even worse condition than I was now and simply followed where other soldiers went. I discovered quickly that it was a disreputable place, and was tempted to gambling more than once. More than that, I had arrived back in London in its warmest period, but as winter had set in it became apparent that I would have to seek an alternative if I wanted any hope of recovery.

And now here I was again, in mid-November, asking for a room. It was the same, toothless man who offered to help me with my luggage, but this time my shoulder was able to take the strain. I took the key and went up to my room on the second floor.

It was a different room than that I had stayed in the last time I was here, and colder than before, but the layout was entirely the same. Bare walls, stained linen, one small and flickering gas lamp. I dropped my bag, feeling suddenly weary.

I had never thought to step foot in this place again. I had an undeniable sense of moving backwards in time and, as though in response to this, my leg and shoulder twinged in joint pain. I changed and burrowed under the covers.

I had little to do in London. No friends, little energy. My Baker Street home had provided me somewhere to at least write and store my books, not to mention Holmes's company and the occasional case he might ask me to join him on. A quick rummage revealed that Holmes had only thought to pack the bare essentials. I had enough to pay for bed and board, but did not think my wallet would stretch to a cab ride across the city to Baker Street to pick up my belongings.

It was only a week, I reasoned with myself, but I could feel an undeniable and familiar melancholia creeping over me. I decided I would deal with it much as I had the last time I had lodged here; by sleeping through it.

* * *

The next few days passed slowly. I did my best, but the cold made my leg ache too greatly to go out walking. I came out of my rooms for dinner, opting to eat alone rather than converse with any of the rowdy clientele. Even if I had been inclined, I was exhausted, for a mix of the cold and of memories stirred of my army time had meant that though I slept often, I still felt decidedly unrested.

On the fifth day of my stay at The Docklands Mermaid, Sherlock Holmes paid me a visit.

"Watson!"

I turned from my meal - unappetising and largely untouched - with surprise. I had entirely forgotten he had said he might call, and wondered how he had discovered where I was staying, for I had also forgotten to update him on the situation.

"I was quite surprised to find you weren't at your lodging house," he told me, as though reading my mind. "Fortunately, a young maid spotted you outside the window and recognised you from the last time you were there. Apparently the two of you had a conversation on that occasion, and you had told her where you had come from. I assumed that would be a likely alternative for where you would spend the week." He wrinkled his nose. "You know Watson, I think she had something of a sweet spot for you."

I scoffed. "Why would a young maid be interested in a cripple such as myself?"

Holmes winced and I instantly felt guilty. Perhaps my time here was affecting me more than I had realised.

"Only a joke," I offered, but sounded unconvincing even to my own ears. I deemed it best to change the subject. "Well, now you have found me, what did you want me for? A case?"

I fear my questions were somewhat over-eager, for Holmes's smile was indulgent and knowing.

"Gather your things and meet me outside. I shall settle up the bill here."

"Oh no, that really isn't necessary-"

"Watson, it is entirely my fault you find yourself without a home this week," his tone was stern. "Now hurry my dear fellow, I have a cab waiting for us outside."

* * *

As it transpired, Holmes had also been living for the week in his old lodgings - a flat in Montague Street. It wasn't so bad as I had imagined from the few throwaway references he had made of the place beforehand, but I could see why it was unsuited to him. The living space was very small, far too small to host his chemistry set, files and - though I knew it was hypocritical of me to say so - his mess. More to the point, it was far enough away from Scotland Yard that it must have been a great inconvenience before he moved.

"You can take the bedroom." He waved to the door. "I cannot sleep with my mind bent on this case."

"I don't want to leave you alone..." I began haltingly, but the notion of a warm, comfortable bed was indeed a promising one.

"I need you well-rested for tonight." His eyes glinted with the promise of adventure. "Sleep, Watson, and I will tell you all when you awake."

It was not Baker Street, but with the sounds of Holmes moving around and muttering to himself next door, I could almost imagine I was back home. I fell into a peaceful sleep within moments.


	11. Mrs Hudson, P I

**From W. Y. Traveller: Mrs. Hudson solves a crime**

* * *

Mr Sherlock Holmes and his close friend and confidant Doctor John Watson were surprised one day in December by a visit from Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.

"You weren't expecting me?" He asked, seeing their joint expressions of surprise. "But I received a telegram demanding my presence at 221B immediately?"

"That was from me, Inspector."

"Mrs Hudson?" Holmes looked with some bemusement to their diminutive landlady who stood, arms crossed, in the living room doorway. "What reason have you to request Inspector Lestrade's company? You have not been caught up in some crime I hope."

"Oh there has been a crime alright. Sit!" She shooed Lestrade onto the sofa, and gestured Holmes and Watson to their respective armchairs. "I have gathered you all here today, because there has been a crime committed against my very person."

"A crime?" Doctor Watson exclaimed. "My dear Mrs Hudson, are you alright? What happened?"

"My wedding ring has gone _missing._" This she declared with all the severity expected had it been the crown jewels to go missing. It might have been comical, had her expression not been so very dour, and all three men wisely kept silent. "Now, I have brought you all here because I believe I know who has done it.

"My first suspect, of course, was Mr Holmes."

Holmes straightened in his chair. "Why me?"

"Mr Holmes since you have been living here, you have shown a decided disregard for my possessions. Seventeen broken teapots, two burnt rugs, and my best coat, gloves and scarf all destroyed in the interests of your cases!"

He slumped. "I suppose you have a point. But I would never think to steal your wedding ring!"

"No, not steal," she agreed. "Even those things you have destroyed, you have made efforts to replace. But I would not put it past you, if you needed it for the sake of a case, to _borrow _my wedding ring.

"However," she continued, turning now to Doctor Watson, "At the time my wedding ring went missing, between 2 and 3 o'clock yesterday afternoon, for I always take it off when I am baking mince pies, Mr Holmes was not in the flat. Doctor Watson, on the other hand-"

"You cannot think that _I _stole it," Doctor Watson bristled. "What cause would I have?"

"To aid Mr Holmes, of course." She went to his desk, upon which his chequebook lay. "I noticed yesterday evening, when I came to clean away the dinner, that your chequebook was out. Usually Mr Holmes keeps it safe for you, and when I quickly looked within I saw that you had filled out a cheque just two days ago. The imprint left behind revealed quite a hefty sum - gambling again, Doctor? No doubt Mr Holmes has helped supplement your rent instalment this month, and so you owed him a favour, no matter how morally objectionable you found it to be."

Watson spluttered incomprehensibly for a few moments. "Well that's not-"

"But still, that didn't make sense," Mrs Hudson cut across him. "For you were in the living room, and called me up to bring you some tea at about half past 2. There was no way you could have taken the ring from the kitchen table without me noticing. You _may_ however, have been working as a distraction whilst the theft took place.

"I was drawn again to consider Mr Holmes. He had said he was away on a case, yes, but was it really true? So I went and asked Wiggins. For the price of a few mince pies, he told me that you had spent the morning at Scotland Yard and exited with none other than-" she turned to the man in question, "-Inspector Lestrade."

Lestrade laughed nervously. "Really, what reason would _I _have to-"

"For the case!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed. "Whatever case it is the two of you are working on! The three of you have _conspired_. Wiggins told me that whilst Mr Holmes went to Whitehall, Inspector Lestrade came to Baker Street. Now, Inspector, you didn't even ring the bell. So my guess is that you were there for a less than respectable reason. You waited on the street until a signal from Doctor Watson through the window alerted you to my presence upstairs, and then you used the opportunity to enter through the front door - which Mr Holmes had either left unlocked or given you the keys to - went to the kitchen, and _stole _my wedding ring. Am I correct?"

Lestrade, Holmes and Watson all looked to one another - and promptly broke out laughing.

"What are you laughing at?" Mrs Hudson demanded. "Am I wrong? Or have you already lost the ring?"

Holmes, still chuckling, explained, "You are completely right, and I must admit an utter admiration for your skills of deduction! Yes, we did take your ring. Watson acted as a distraction and I told Lestrade what to do."

"Hmmph." She crossed her arms again. "Then what exactly is so funny?"

"There was just one point on which you were mistaken." He went to the desk and picked up Watson's chequebook. "Watson has not been gambling. In fact the "hefty sum" you mentioned - which yes, now I look, can be read from the imprint on the page below - was for a Christmas gift."

"A Christmas gift?" Mrs Hudson exclaimed. "That is quite the amount for a Christmas gift! Whoever is that for?"

Watson stood, pulling a box from his pocket. "It's for you, Mrs Hudson, from all three of us."

"For me?" She took the box warily and opened it up, revealing a glinting ring within. "Oh! It's beautiful!"

"And here's your wedding ring," Lestrade added, holding out the item in question for her to take. "I had plans to drop it back this evening, say I had found it at the front door or something of the like. We only needed to know your finger size."

"We had aimed to surprise you for Christmas," Watson concluded ruefully. "Hence the subterfuge!"

Mrs Hudson blushed. "Oh. Oh dear. And there was me accusing you all of thievery! I am ever so sorry."

But Holmes was beaming at their landlady with evident pride. "Mrs Hudson it does me great joy to see your deductive prowess. Perhaps I ought to start inviting you on some of my cases!"

"Or some of mine," Lestrade smiled.

Watson went to wrap her in a hug. "Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hudson."


	12. The Secret Santa

**From Wordwielder: Secret Santa**

* * *

**A/N: **A prequel of sorts to another of my responses from a different December Challenge [Chapter 24. A Return, 'A Winter's Tale or Two'].

* * *

"Wiggins!" Mr Holmes's face - he would always be Mr Holmes to me, no matter how old I became - lit up when he opened the door. "Was I expecting you?"

"I was in the area, thought I'd pop by."

He squinted at my uniform and patted his pockets until he found a pair of wire-framed glasses. Once they were on, he looked me up and down properly. "Good heavens Wiggins, you're proposing? To Miss Butterworth?"

I laughed and clapped my hands together in amazement. It was as though I were that young boy again, back in London, and he had just revealed the thrilling conclusion of a case.

"That's right, Mr Holmes. Elsa's dad lives not too far from here, you see."

"Well you must come in and tell me all about it," he shuffled inside, through to the living room, and his housekeeper brought us some tea. "Not as good as Mrs Hudson's," he said, once Mrs Morgan had left us. "But I suspect it's better than what they've been serving you on the front line."

I suppressed a shudder, preferring to think of the war as little as possible when I was home. Mr Holmes noticed, of course, but was kind enough not to say anything.

"I was thinking of Mrs Hudson the other day, in fact," he continued, laying his cup aside. "Do you remember around this time of year she would make mince pies?"

"Best pies in London," I grinned. "Those Christmases were some of my best memories, you know. Even when things were hard, you could always look forward to Christmas time at Baker Street."

Mr Holmes nodded solemnly. "Things were very hard, for so many of you. It was Watson who really changed those Christmases." He looked to the Doctor's empty armchair - they must have brought their furniture with them from Baker Street - then back to me. "You've heard he's missing?"

Although the Irregulars were all disbanded, we still kept in touch, and news travelled fast when it pertained to either Mr Holmes or Doctor Watson. "I have. Kept an eye out for him, in France like, once I'd heard."

His eyes glimmered, I liked to think, with pride. "A Baker Street Irregular to the end, eh?"

"Wouldn't dream of anything else," I laughed, then sobered as my thoughts returned to the Doctor. "They say it'll finish soon, Mr Holmes. The war that is. Perhaps that'll make it easier to find him?"

"Hmm." His eyes were back on Doctor Watson's chair, and I was suddenly struck by how old he looked. "We have to hope so."

"I realised something the other week, about Doctor Watson."

"Oh? And what was that?"

"It was him that dressed up as Santa every year, wasn't it?"

Mr Holmes threw back his head with a bark of laughter, the exact reaction I had hoped for. "You have only _just _realised?"

"I never thought about it before!" I exclaimed, with mock-indignance. "And he did it so well. What was that accent he used to do?"

"Inverness, or so he told me. You know he is Scottish by birth?"

"I didn't," I admitted. "I reckon there's plenty I never learnt about either of you. But I do remember Santa bringing us gifts."

"Baker Street's best kept secret, clearly." His keen grey eyes glinted again with humour. "And there was I telling Watson that none of you would ever believe such a thing."

"Oh we believed it alright. Still got that old toy train somewhere."

"Still? Whatever for?"

I shrugged, a little bashful now. "I know it sounds strange, Mr Holmes, but for a lot of us lot you two - well, you two and Mrs Hudson - were the closest thing to family we had. I suppose I always kept it because I hoped I might give it to _my _child one day, if me and Elsa are ever so blessed."

Mr Holmes always had a very particular manner, so I could see why so many believed what Doctor Watson wrote about him not having any feelings. I had never believed _that _for one moment, but if ever I needed proof of his heart I had it now. He blinked forcefully, cleared his throat, and for a few moments was unable to speak. Eventually he stood to pour us both drinks, and I thought to myself it that it was so he could take a minute to gather himself.

"Thank you, Wiggins," he spoke eventually, voice soft, and handed me a glass of whisky. "I am sure, were Watson here, he would be just as touched as I am."

"Then here's to his safe return." I clinked my glass against Mr Holmes's. "And to your good health."

"And yours."

We drank, and I prayed fervently we would both get what we wished for.


	13. The Hypatia Club

**From V Tsuion: Genderbend (anyone or everyone)**

* * *

It was shortly after the case involving unfortunate Ms. Melas that I received a private telegram from none other than Mycroft Holmes, inviting me to dinner that evening.

"Mycroft?" Holmes turned the letter over, inspecting it closely. "Whatever would Mycroft want with you?"

I shrugged uneasily for I had been thinking much the same. Truth be told I had found the elder Holmes somewhat intimidating when we met, although admittedly I had welcomed the rare insight into my friend's life.

"I suppose I will have to go and find out."

Holmes must have noticed my unease, for he handed back the telegram with a reassuring grasp of my shoulder. "Have no fear old fellow. I'm sure it's only to thank you for your part in the case."

"It is you who should be thanked," I grumbled. "I hardly even did anything!"

"You saved Ms. Melas's life," Holmes pointed out. "And that is not to be sneered at. Besides if there is one thing Mycroft knows well, it is food."

"Thank goodness for small blessings," I said, but it was with anxiety that I tucked the telegram back into my jacket pocket and went about my rounds.

* * *

I awaited Mycroft in the visitor's room at The Hypatia Club **[1]**, the one room in which men were granted access, and shuffled my feet awkwardly. I had felt odd being here during the case, but was even more so now, without Holmes to keep me company.

Finally Mycroft appeared. I had never met another woman of her stature; nearly as tall as her brother and at least twice as wide as he was, with no bother for the corsets that were the fashion of our time. Indeed she seemed to care little for fashion whatsoever, which fit exactly with what Holmes had described of her way of life.

She smiled sympathetically as she approached. "Doctor, there really is no need to be so worried. I have called you here to ask a favour, and thought dinner was only fair recompense for your time. Ms. Melas actually recommended the restaurant in question, as a little thank you of her own."

I stammered something or other about how it was Holmes who should really be there, but Mycroft would not accept that.

"My brother gets enough praise," she said in a dismissive manner I am sure most siblings would recognise. "I have heard his name all over the place since you became his chronicler. You, on the other hand, deserve a reward."

"I do not accompany him for reward."

I resisted the urge to squirm as she pinned me with an interrogating look. "No. I don't believe you do. And you forget, Doctor Watson, that I was raised with Sherlock; so I know _exactly _what your friendship means to him. Now, shall we go? It would be a terrible shame to miss these reservations, as I have heard excellent things of the chef."

* * *

The dinner was, as Holmes had predicted that morning, excellent. Mycroft and I made some desultory small-talk which was pleasant enough and, midway through our pudding, I decided to broach the real reason I was there.

"You mentioned a favour?"

She took a napkin and dabbed at the corner of her mouth. "It is in fact to do with your publications, Doctor Watson. I don't know how you decide which stories you write, but I thought it might be that you had intended to publish this last 'adventure'?"

"I would never publish without your permission," I assured her ardently. "I hadn't yet given the matter thought, but if you are worried about protecting yours and Ms Melas's privacy then I won't even bother writing the thing up."

"You misunderstand me, although I do appreciate the sentiment. I invited you here to ask whether you _would _publish."

"Oh." This took me somewhat aback. "I see."

"'The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter', perhaps?" she suggested. "I leave the finer details to you, but I do have some... _requests._"

"Requests? What sort of requests?"

"My brother has told you already about the life I lead," she began delicately. "I have come far along a path not trod by many women. This owes, and I hope you won't think me arrogant for saying so, but to my superior intellect. However, even that would not be enough if I did not conduct the bulk of my work from home. When men correspond with me they see only "Mycroft Holmes" at the bottom of the telegram or letter, and they assume they correspond with a man. I thrive on their assumptions, for without these I would never have become so successful in my line of work. And with that in mind, I wondered whether the Mycroft Holmes in your story might not live up to those assumptions."

"You mean I should make you a man?" I tried to wrap my head around the idea. "And that wouldn't upset you?"

She huffed a soft chuckle, a noted contrast to her younger brother's staccato bark of laughter. "Not in the slightest. Our world's definition of a woman is not one I aspire to. Me and Sherlock are alike in that way - neither of us fit the mould."

This, I supposed, was true. But I had never met a woman so willing to part with her femininity. Then again, before I had met Mycroft, I had never given the matter much thought. "It is only that it is such a compromise for you, Miss Holmes. What if I wrote you as a woman, to showcase just what women are capable of?"

"Then I shall be seen as a freakish anomaly," she answered me flatly. "This may be a compromise, but it is one I have been making all my life so that I might live as I please. Will you help?"

I did not have to consider her question too long. I had changed details in other stories, it was nothing new. And to be owed a favour by Miss Mycroft Holmes seemed a valuable thing in itself.

"Of course, if it is what you wish."

"Excellent!" she exclaimed, and nodded to a waiter to begin clearing our crockery. "Now Doctor, do feel free to return home. There is a cab waiting outside and I understand you have a long day of it tomorrow?"

I did not bother to ask her how she reached these conclusions, or how she had timed the cab to arrive at the right time. No doubt she had always known I would agree to what she asked. She was, after all, the more intelligent of the two Holmes siblings.

* * *

**[1] **This AU's equivalent of The Diogenes Club - "**Hypatia **(born c. 350–370; died 415) was a Hellenistic Neoplatonist philosopher, astronomer, and mathematician, who lived in Alexandria, Egypt, then part of the Eastern Roman Empire. She was a prominent thinker of the Neoplatonic school in Alexandria where she taught philosophy and astronomy. She is the first female mathematician whose life is reasonably well recorded. Hypatia was renowned in her own lifetime as a great teacher and a wise counsellor."


	14. Adrift - Part 1

**From Book girl fan: Adrift.**

* * *

When we embarked upon the trip, we thought it would only be a simple reconnaissance mission. So simple, in fact, that Holmes railed against the favour he owed his brother (what favour I still didn't know), and insisted that I join him to liven the journey. I was keen to come, even if there was no promise of adventure, for though I had travelled my fair share of the world I had still never seen The Netherlands. Moreover, I had heard of _The Friesland_ beforehand, for it was a new steamship set to be equipped with all the most up-to-date technology and amenities of our time **[1] **which I would be keen to experience as a passenger.

The first sign of something amiss was a delay in Mycroft's telegrams. I would have hardly noticed, but Holmes was most perturbed.

"Mycroft's calculations on such things are rarely incorrect," he informed me over that day's breakfast aboard the steamship, still closely inspecting the telegram that had been given him by one of the ship's stewards earlier in our cabin. "Even when I was travelling the continent, and hardly knew where I would be myself, he somehow managed to estimate when and where his various correspondences would reach me."

"You think someone has been intercepting your communications?"

"I am certain of it. Which means someone aboard the ship knows that we are not who we say we are." He leant back in his chair, much as he would his armchair in Baker Street, deep in thought. "Watson, do you have your revolver?"

I nodded, which seemed to reassure him a little. "You think there is danger then?"

"Certainly more than Mycroft suspected when he set us on this task." Holmes stood. "I will wire him now. I fear that whatever is going on aboard this ship is more than we are equipped to handle. Shall I meet you back in the cabin?"

"Of course."

* * *

I never made it back to the cabin, for I was waylaid by one of the ship's engineers who looked pale as a ghost.

"Excuse me, Doctor Jones isn't it?"

This was the alias Holmes and I had agreed on, for according to him it was better that any lies I told were as close to truth as possible. "Yes, that is me. Is there a problem?"

"It's the captain sir! He's been shot!"

* * *

I did consider fetching Holmes first, for it was certain that the shooting was linked to whatever criminal forces were at work on this vessel, but there was a man's life at stake and so I instead told the engineer - his name was Dekker - to go and fetch my medical bag as I went to the Captain.

He was in a very bad way, propped up by an assortment of coats and jumpers collected from various crewmen, and I caught a flash of bloodied teeth as he groaned in pain. We were in an engine room, and as Dekker ran in with my medical bag he informed me that the captain had been found just a few minutes ago when they had heard the gunshot and come running.

"Who shot him?"

"It was... a man..." The Captain hissed. "Brown hair... didn't recognise him..."

I shushed him, and set to work. He had been shot in the stomach, but mercifully the bullet had missed anything vital, although he promptly (and quite mercifully) lost consciousness. I patched him up, but he had lost a lot of blood and it was likely infection would set in. I told this to Dekker, who hovered anxiously nearby, once I had done as much as I could and the captain was taken to rest in his cabin.

"What's going on?" I asked, finally noticing the flurry of activity going on around us. There was a great deal of yelling, and crewmen running back and forth with panicked expressions.

"The engine's stopped." Dekker shrugged helplessly. "The Captain's been shot, the first mate's nowhere to be found, and no one knows what the problem is. I had best go help, so much as I can."

"Watson!" At that moment Holmes barrelled around the corner, looking nearly as pale as Dekker had when he called me aside to treat the captain. Dekker looked curious, given Holmes had used my real name rather than my pseudonym, but evidently had more pressing worries and dashed off. "What in God's name has happened to you?"

I realised, then, what a sight I must look, stained with blood. All I could think to say, numbly, was, "It's not mine."

"Well I can see that." He picked my medical bag up from the floor, and beckoned me to follow him. "Come quickly now. We must speak in private."

* * *

Once we reached our cabin I told Holmes what had happened to the captain.

"And he didn't give you any clearer description of the man who shot him?"

I shook my head regretfully. "He was not in any fit state to do so." I went to unpack my revolver, for the sudden encounter with the poor captain had left me more shaken than I cared to admit.

"He would have been midway through his daily inspection," Holmes mused. "Perhaps he saw someone tampering with the engines, and that's why they've stopped."

"Holmes..." I looked, aghast, from my case. "My revolver is gone."

He was on his feet in an instant, coming beside me to examine the contents of my suitcase. "Gone? Are you certain?"

I raised a sardonic eyebrow.

"Of course, of course you are certain. But did you have it this morning?"

"I had it before breakfast, when Mycroft's first telegram arrived with the steward." I huffed. I had not been parted from my revolver for any lengthy period of time since my time as an army medic. It felt almost like losing a limb. "Speaking of Mycroft, were you able to wire him?"

"I was." Holmes smiled humourlessly. "The stopped engine meant there was no-one manning the telegraph, but I muddled through. He replied swiftly."

"And?" I asked, but already a knot of dread was forming in my stomach, for there was something in Holmes's expression that suggested ill news. "Will they send help?"

"As soon as they can, but a terrible snowstorm has struck the coast."

I groaned. "You mean to say we are alone until it lets up?"

"Alone, adrift, and without a weapon between us."

And then, as though to punctuate this sentiment, the force of a small explosion from somewhere below decks rocked through the entire ship and sent us both tumbling to our cabin floor.

* * *

**[1] **I did a little research, and telegrams on ships would have been quite rare, hence this little detail.


	15. Adrift - Part 2

**From Wordwielder: Dashing through the snow**

* * *

I could foresee a great many things. It was the majority of my job, in fact, to use statistics and deduction to predict the many nuanced sways and movements of people and of politics. One thing I could not predict, however, was the quixotic English weather.

It was February, for God's sake! A snowstorm, in February?! The weather would have been enough to dismay me, for I did so detest anything that interrupted my usual routines. But with the added developments regarding _The Friesland_, dismay had turned to something bordering on horror.

A benefit of my club, The Diogenes, is that it houses its own telegrapher. Thank God it did, for if not then I would have received Sherlock's request for help far too late. Still, I wondered if I would make it in time. There was little transport running in such horrific weather, and I found myself for most of the journey to the harbour in a one horse open sleigh, sheltering from the elements beneath a large throw.

It was an embarrassing position, I will admit, but I had no wish to repeat that moment from just over 4 years ago, when I had received a telegram informing me of my brother's apparent demise at the hands of Professor Moriarty. So I had called in all my favours, pulled all the strings I could, and even now a brave crew of able seamen assembled to take a ship through this snowstorm and onto _The Friesland. _Sherlock, and Doctor Watson, would escape this business safely. I would make sure of it.


	16. Adrift - Part 3

**From mrspencil: a mistaken identity**

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen, if I can please beg your attention!" This impassioned plea was from the First Mate of the ship, Mr Hendriks, who looked ill-suited to the sudden responsibility which had been thrust upon him following the Captain's injury. "Please everyone, try not to panic!"

We had all been ushered hastily into the dining room following a brief period of confusion and panic. Fortunately no one had been severely injured in the explosion, which we were now being told was from a very minor issue with the steam boiler.

"Very minor," Hendriks repeated. "Although we would ask that you remain in your cabins for a short while, to enable the rest of the crew and I to carry out some necessary checks."

A collective groan went up amongst the passengers.

"I know, I know! It will not take long, and then our journey will resume as planned."

The crowd slowly dissipated, muttering complaints, and the crewmen rushed off to set to their respective tasks.

"I can't see van Es anywhere." Watson's eyes darted between the many faces that passed us by. "Where is he?"

"I have an idea," I said, and made for the First Mate, Watson close behind me.

I was forced to limp on Watson's cane, for when the explosion earlier had sent us both to the floor, I had landed awkwardly upon my ankle. I was certain it was only a bad sprain, and refused Watson an examination at the time, but I could feel his disapproving glances on my back.

"Mr Hendriks." Hendriks looked away from the engineer he was talking to rapidly in Dutch - Mr Dekker, as it so happened - with some irritation. "We have some information regarding the explosion."

"Information? We don't need any information. Everything is perfectly safe, so if you could please get to your cabin-"

"But you see, my friend here Doctor Jones spoke to the Captain just after he was shot," I continued resolutely. "The Captain said he was shot by a dangerous man who wanted to sabotage the ship. Couldn't it be that man is still hiding near the boilers? Oughtn't we try and capture him?"

"Really?" Hendriks addressed Watson now. "He said that?"

Dissimulation has never been Watson's particular forte, but to give him his credit he answered smoothly, "I would have said so at the time, but everyone was so concerned with the engines stopping, and then there was that dreadful explosion."

"I was there when Doctor Jones was with the Captain, after he'd been shot," Dekker piped in. "I saw him say something, though I didn't hear what it was. If you like, Mr Hendriks sir, I could accompany them to the boilers just to double check?"

"No, no, I'll go," Hendriks said impatiently. "You get to your post Mr Dekker, check the passengers have everything they need."

"But sir, that really does seem more suited to a steward's role-"

"_Dekker_," Hendriks all but growled. "That's an order."

Duly chastised, Dekker nodded to the three of us and left. Hendriks heaved a long-suffering sigh.

"Alright. Lead the way then Doctor Jones and..?"

"Mr Peterson," I lied. It would serve us better to retain our aliases, at least for the time being. We still weren't sure who was responsible among the crew for intercepting the communications from Mycroft.

* * *

It was not so difficult to track down van Es, although the new injury to my foot meant things went slower than I'd have liked. And of course, when we did uncover him in the small crawlspace close to one of the steam boilers, he was able to take advantage of my hindered balance to knock me down and sprint away.

Once he had ascertained that I was only badly winded, Watson tore off in pursuit. Mr Hendriks remained and helped me back to my feet.

"His name is Bartholomew van Es," I said, once I had gotten Watson's cane back under me. My ankle throbbed with renewed intensity. "He was the one who shot the Captain, and probably the one who sabotaged the engines." But here I faltered. For if he _had _shot the captain, why hadn't he used the gun on me, rather than run?

"You ought to get you back to your cabin now, Mr Holmes," Hendriks was saying, steering me away from the engines. "I will send someone to check on Mr van Es and your friend."

"No, I should-" But I stopped and looked to him in sudden apprehension, for he had used my real name, not my alias.

He swore under his breath, realising his mistake. "Foolish of me," he smiled in mock-apology, and the last thing I saw was the butt of Watson's revolver as it slammed into my temple.

* * *

I drifted in and out of awareness, the intense throbbing in my head matched only by the pain in my ankle, which was made worse as I was dragged unceremoniously to the ship's brig. Hendrick's voice filtered in and out as he spoke with other Dutch crewmen.

I had studied Dutch in preparation for this task from Mycroft, and even in my concussed state I could grasp a little of what was being said. The ship was taking on water quickly, despite what they had told the passengers and other crew-members. The word _kant_ came up several times, and I couldn't quite grasp its meaning although I was certain it was lodged somewhere in my addled brain.

As I was slipping back into unconsciousness I heard Watson's name mentioned, and felt perversely relieved when Hendrick dismissed him as an "idioot". Criminals we faced had a tendency to underestimate my friend and my last thought before slipping into darkness was an earnest hope that he might use this to his advantage, and find a way out of this dire situation.


	17. Adrift - Part 4

**From mrspencil: a mistaken identity**

* * *

"Holmes? Holmes?!"

Watson's concerned features swam into focus somewhere above me and, as I regained my awareness, the relieved sigh he breathed mimicked my own feelings entirely.

"Thank God." He eased me up slowly from the floor. "I was convinced Hendriks would have shot you."

I shook my head, and instantly regretted the movement, as my vision swam again.

"Would have attracted too much attention." I swallowed down the sudden surge of nausea and, with Watson's help, managed to stand. I leaned on him heavily, ignoring his grumbles that he should have looked at my ankle as soon as it was injured. "Watson, Hendriks was lying. The ship is sinking."

"I know." He wrapped an arm around my waist and we set off at a shuffling, ungainly gait. "Van Es explained everything."

"Van Es?"

"I'll explain on the way," he promised as we left the brig which, now I looked around, was in quite a state of disarray.

"What has happened here?!"

"An encounter with some of your captors," he said with a dry chuckle. "But I shall get to that in a moment. I caught up with van Es, but he had no idea who I was. This, coupled with the fact that he didn't have my revolver, struck me as peculiar, so I decided to listen to what he had to say.

"Your brother's information was right, Holmes, to an extent. He _is _a Dutch spy, but he wasn't in London to gain information about the British government. He was placed with an offshoot of a Dutch criminal syndicate, and it was they who wanted him to gather information regarding import tax evasion for their bosses. However, this particular offshoot of men - led by Hendriks - decided instead to use this information for their own ends; to start their own smuggling business."

"Lace." Suddenly the meaning of that word they had repeated - _kant _\- came to me. "They were smuggling lace."

Watson nodded. "Van Es argued against their plan, as he needed them to go back to the main syndicate so he could continue gathering information. Hendriks grew suspicious, discovered who he really was, and tried to kill him. A group of them chased him down to the engines, where the Captain was carrying out his daily walk-around."

"They mistook him for van Es," I realised. "They never intended to shoot the Captain at all."

"Indeed. And whilst van Es hid in the crawlspace nearby, he overheard their plans. With the Captain injured there would be an investigation, their smuggled goods would be discovered in the hold, and the game would be up. But if they _sunk _the ship they could escape with the lifeboats and the lace, the larger syndicate would assume they had perished, and van Es would be killed along with everyone else."

By this point, we had emerged from the bowels of the ship and were nearly above deck. A man approached us, and I tensed, my recent encounter with Hendriks having left me wary. As the man drew closer, however, I recognised the engineer Dekker.

"Aha! You've found him!" He came and replaced Watson at my side. This was just as well, as Watson's own leg was no doubt feeling the strain of our combined weight.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr Holmes," Dekker said as the three of us emerged out onto the deck. Groups of passengers and crewmen were packing themselves in tight onto lifeboats which were then lowered down into the sea. I looked out and saw several distant, bobbing dots which must have been those lifeboats that had already been loaded. "I do so enjoy reading your adventures."

Perhaps I should have had more patience, but the last thing I wished to deal with on top of everything else was a fervent admirer of Watson's romanticised drivel.

"You haven't finished your explanation," I addressed Watson over Dekker's head. "What happened after van Es told you all this? Where are the criminals now?"

"Well, we got most of them." Dekker was apparently unaffected by my brusque manner. "I already had my suspicions about the boiler, because there was a similar malfunction on _The Stratwarden _a few years back that sunk the ship. When I tried to explain it to Hendriks he didn't want to know, but there were some other crewmen who felt the same. Then I came across Doctor Watson with Mr van Es and they told me everything. So whilst Mr van Es got the passengers assembled, me and my men set to rounding up the criminals, while Doctor Watson went to find you."

At last I was permitted to sit, and did so somewhat shakily. Dekker handed me Watson's cane.

"Found this near the boilers. Thought it might come in handy!"

"It's not mine," I grunted, waving it away impatiently, but Watson pushed it into my hand.

"You need it more than I do. Now, let me see your foot."

"You said you got 'most of them'?" I asked through gritted teeth as Watson eased off my shoe, hissing at the swollen ankle beneath. "What about the rest?"

"Well, Mr van Es told us there were ten of them- oh, one moment." Dekker broke off swiftly to issue an order in Dutch to a passing steward regarding the passenger numbers on lifeboats. "Me and my men gathered five, and Doctor Watson had a tussle with two of them at the brig-"

"Two?" I interrupted, looking to Watson in some surprise. "You took on two of them?"

"I had the element of surprise," he answered with an impish smirk. He had finished stabilising my ankle and moved on now on to look at my head. "This looks nasty, Holmes..."

I ignored that and directed my questions back to Dekker. "What of the other three?"

"Escaped," he answered grimly. "The 16th lifeboat is missing."

"16? There are only 16 lifeboats?" **[1]**

"Terrible, isn't it?" Watson chimed, now wiping dried blood from my forehead and wincing at what he saw. "If the voyage had sold all its tickets things would be rather hopeless. Even now it's a tight squeeze."

I watched again as another lifeboat, nearly overflowing with passengers, was lowered into the water. "Are we nearly there?"

Watson nodded. "The women and children went first, of course, and there have been a few men sent with them to steer. The poor Captain was on one of the first lifeboats too. We have advised everybody to head, as close as they can, back towards the British coast. Hopefully Mycroft will pick us all up as he finds us. I said we would go last, with Dekker, van Es and the remaining crewmen, so I could take a look at your ankle. And your head," he added as an afterthought, "although of course I didn't know about that at the time."

"My head is fine." He looked disbelieving, so I amended, "A little sore is all."

He looked unconvinced, but snapped his medical bag shut all the same. "Well there won't be time for stitches, but I've cleaned it up at least."

I was only just starting to realise that some of the odd tilting sensation that I was experiencing was due to the sinking of the ship, and not to my impaired sense of balance. One of the crewmen yelled over to us, and Dekker shouted something back before saying to us, "This is it then, the last lifeboat. If we get you on first, Mr Holmes?"

I frowned, and opened my mouth to argue, but Watson forestalled my refusal.

"It will make things easier for the rest of us, Holmes, if we don't have to worry about you tripping over your own broken foot."

"It's not broken," I rejoined, but with little heat. Watson looked about as tired as I did, still in the shirt that was stained with the captain's dried blood, and I had no wish to stir up a fuss for no reason. I accepted Dekker's hand and let him pull me onto my feet. With Watson's cane I limped to the lifeboat and another crewman helped me hop in. Someone had had the foresight to stuff the boat with blankets, and now twilight had set in the temperature was rapidly dropping. The ocean looked far more intimidating now the wind had picked up, but this was no time for nerves. The ship was sinking lower and lower whether we wished it to or not, and one way or another we would be thrust out to sea. I would much prefer it happen on my own terms.

"Mr Holmes?" I was jolted from my reflections by Mr van Es. He offered me a cigarette from his case, and lit it for me. "I am glad to meet you, sir. You know they taught me some of your techniques, when I was in training in The Netherlands?"

I smiled wearily and shook his hand. "I wish we might have met under better circumstances." I jerked my head towards the huddle of men standing a little way away - this huddle included Watson, Dekker and the other crewmen who would be coming on this final lifeboat. "What are they talking about?"

Van Es spoke impeccable English, with hardly a trace of an accent - useful, I imagined, for a man in his profession. "Before the boats were lowered by other men, but now of course we need to find a way to get everyone in. They are trying to figure out how is best. I believe Doctor Watson has suggested that he and I lower the boat, then use a rope ladder to follow on."

I eyed Watson, who was speaking animatedly to the assembled men. "Why the two of you? Surely a member of the crew would make more sense."

He shrugged. "It isn't a difficult job, Mr Holmes. They have a pulley system, easy to operate with no physical strain. Dekker and the two other engineers will need to use their skill to keep the lifeboat close to the main ship so the pulley operators can climb down, and the other men are all stewards, and all older. I don't know that they could keep a tight enough hold on the rope on the way down, especially in this wind."

Watson was adept at hiding his physical hurts, but I knew him well enough to see the stiff set to his left shoulder as he nodded along eagerly to whatever it was Dekker had just said. "You know he was wounded in Afghanistan? His shoulder-"

"I know, Mr Holmes." Van Es's stare was piercing and grey - not unlike mine, I considered to myself. "But he is a stubborn man. One of the reasons I volunteered my help was because without him, I wouldn't be here. I will keep him safe, Mr Holmes."

I pursed my lips, but nodded my assent. "Nothing has gone as planned on this trip."

Van Es made to respond, but then Dekker was calling out and assembling his men - it was time to get the other passengers aboard. So he stubbed out his cigarette, and went to help attach the lifeboat to its pulleys. Watson came over and dropped his medical bag into my lap.

"No one is allowed to take non-essentials, but seeing as I have already lost my revolver," he shrugged, with a wry smile. "Van Es and I are going to help lower the boat, Holmes, so do save me a blanket, won't you?"

I smiled back, though I fear it was more of a grimace as I tried in vain to banish the discomfiting sense that something was about to go terribly wrong. "Of course, Watson."

* * *

**[1] **Based off of the infamous Titanic, and the regulations which meant they had so very few lifeboats.

* * *

**A/N: **Final part to this (in theory) will be coming in response to my 19th Dec Prompt, so you have a little while to wait and see what's happened to the boys! Also, I have done very minimal research into steamships of the time because I was tired, so apologies if there are any glaring errors in there.


	18. Things Bohemian and Queer

**A/N: **It's always difficult writing about queer identities in the context of history (I use queer here as a queer person, in reclamation of what was once a slur), and so I suppose I just want to apologise if this seems, or is, clumsily written. All feedback is welcome, especially if it helps me to grow.

* * *

**From Michael JG Meathook: When Sherlock works his first case requiring to be disguised as a woman, he discovers that being a woman fulfils a longing in deep within himself he had long tried to suppress.**

* * *

One becomes used to certain things, living with Sherlock Holmes. I was used to him shooting the walls, filling our living room with noxious gases and flitting in and out in various guises with barely a look or comment to suggest these things might be out of the ordinary. So when I came into our living room to discover a woman towering over 6-foot tall who had not quite finished shaving her five o'clock shadow, I hardly blinked. She - that is, Sherlock Holmes - was more disconcerted than I had ever seen.

"Watson! I- I didn't know you would be in." Eyebrows, which I only then appreciated that Holmes must find time to pluck at some time or other, drew together in consternation. "Shouldn't you be at your club?"

"I was late finishing my rounds," I replied absent-mindedly, putting aside my medical bag and searching instead for my cuff-links. Then I stopped, for it was rare indeed that Holmes wouldn't deduce something so obvious. "Are you alright, Holmes?"

Holmes stuttered, lost for words in a few rare moments of shock. "You do not mind this?"

I began to consider that perhaps this was not some disguise in aid of a case, as I had automatically assumed.

"Most sane men would be disgusted." Holmes's tone was flat, but the words stuck in me at a strange angle and made me feel terribly sad. "Most women, terrified."

"I am not most people then," was my careful answer. I took a step toward Holmes and looked him - her? - _them_ \- up and down. The dress was nice enough, though a little old-fashioned to my eye. "Do you have a wig?"

Holmes's head tilted in confusion. "You needn't indulge this, Watson. I can change."

"I do not want you to change." And although we were discussing only Holmes's outfit, I hoped my words might lodge somewhere deeper. "I was only curious. But I can leave, if you would prefer."

If it were anyone else, I may have acted more shamefully than I did that day. There were things I was born with, raised with, taught as I grew that may have made my reaction more extreme - perhaps even violent. Sherlock Holmes has always proved an exception for me, and I have always been desperately glad of it. Especially now as I saw the smile, which bloomed tentatively across their face like weak sunlight through rain.

"My dear Watson," they laughed, "I really will never get your limits."

"And I will never get yours." I schooled my face into a parody of solemnity that I knew would send Holmes into renewed laughter. "So I suppose we are stuck with each other."

I did not go to my club that night, to smoke with stuffy men I knew from my university, but instead remained with Holmes and discussed things Bohemian and Queer - and, of course, the best place to purchase a more fashionable dress.


	19. Tidying Up

**From Domina Temporis: Tidying up**

* * *

At the tender age of 21, my poor husband Wilfred was taken from me in a tragic accident. He worked on the docks you see, and it happened late one night when he was helping bring a ship into port. Needless to say I was devastated, but found myself in a more fortunate position than other women might, because my dear Wilfred had squirrelled some savings away and left it all to me, along with our comfortable flat in Yorkshire.

So, once I had recovered from my grief a little, I began to consider how best to forge a life for myself. I spoke to my mother and she was the one who recommended Martha Hudson to me. Martha Hudson isn't a true relative, just a friend of our family, but I had thought of her as "Aunt Martha" my whole life. I hadn't met her since I was small, but when my mother told me about her business as a landlady, I thought it might be something that I could turn my hand to.

We met at 221B Baker Street, a charming flat, and she had the whole lower apartment to herself!

"It's two gentlemen living upstairs," she told me, over tea and crumpets. "Mr Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. They are a little peculiar, but I think we're getting used to each other."

This was long before the stories of Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson started to circulate. "Peculiar, how?"

"Oh, well," Martha waved her hand airily, "they keep odd hours, and Mr Holmes has his experiments-"

"Experiments?"

"An amateur chemist, it comes in handy in his line of work."

This was getting more and more intriguing. "What is his line of work?"

"A private detective of some sort," she said, so dismissive that I might have laughed if I didn't still harbour that residual anxiety which sometimes comes from meeting with a distant, older relative. "But my point is, dear Angie, that you must be firm in your negotiations with your tenants."

"Angie" was an old term of endearment I hadn't heard for many years, and I smiled indulgently. "Might you give me an example?"

Martha thought for a moment. "Well, say with Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson... when they first started to live here, the agreement was that I would cook their meals, change their sheets, do their laundry, and tidy the living room once a week. But of course, then I realised just how _hazardous _tidying up can be!"

"Hazardous?" The more I heard of these strange tenants, the more fretful I became. And Martha spoke as though this were all commonplace!

"It's Mr Holmes's chemicals you see," she explained, and I supposed that was fine enough, but then she went on to say, "And then there was a finger once."

"A finger!"

"It was wrapped up!" She spoke as though that were a reassurance, which did nothing to ease my worry. "But that was the final straw. I said, "No Mr Holmes, you will have to do the tidying yourself from now on" and that was that. But if I had been younger or more shy, who knows what tidying I would have done before I'd have renegotiated our terms!"

"I see." I sipped my tea slowly, considering this. "I don't know if I'm really cut out to be a landlady, what with all you've said. It seems you've got quite a lot to deal with."

Her expression softened then, eyes fond. "You don't have children, do you Angie?"

I swallowed, for this had been one of the biggest sources of my grief when Wilfred had passed. Had I a child, there might be some comfort from the loneliness. "I do not."

"Neither do I." Martha patted my hand. "But there are other ways to be a mother, you know? Oh it's not the same, I'd never say that. But those boys need looking after, and I look after them. And there is something quite wonderful in that."

We chatted back and forth, and she offered me some practical advice - what rates I should charge, services I should include, how and when best to place advertisements - before I headed home on the train that evening.

It was many, many, years later that I heard of Martha's death. Old age, apparently. I had been a landlady for a long while by then, although I was fortunate enough not to deal with wrapped up fingers or chemical experiments! I had remarried, and had two children, and of course it was a well touted family story that our Martha Hudson was none other than the great Sherlock Holmes's landlady.

I never did go to her funeral - it was too far to get down to London, and little Charlie was ill with a terrible fever - but I did make sure to read that little passage in _The Adventure of the Dying Detective _where she is mentioned by name to both my children, and I told them sternly how if there had been no Mrs Martha Hudson, there would have been no Mr Sherlock Holmes or Doctor John Watson.

"She was like a mother to them," I said. "They would have been lost without her."


	20. Adrift - Part 5

**A/N: ** Part 1 of the promised conclusion...

* * *

**From Book girl fan: One lace glove.**

* * *

Our ship's departure through the snowstorm was difficult. I had not been on the sea since I was a young man, the last time having been with Sherlock and our parents to visit French relatives. The bobbing motions of our ship made me feel nauseous and I tried, in vain, to distract myself with paperwork in my cabin. I was not one for travel, but Sherlock did have a tendency to draw me out of my normal habits.

That, I corrected myself, was not actually fair. I had hoped to use Sherlock to fill a gap in our intelligence, a boring job for him but a necessary one for the British government, and it was hardly his fault that I had misjudged the danger.

There was a knock at my cabin door.

"Yes?" I put my papers to the side as one of the bridge members from our skeleton crew opened the door. "What is it?"

"Sir, we've just picked up two lifeboats." He hesitated a moment as I surged to my feet, but pressed on, "Passengers say they're from _The Friesland _sir. She's sunk."

* * *

Over the next few hours we picked up more lifeboats, including one that carried what I was told were members of a Dutch criminal syndicate and another that carried the injured Captain. Fortunately we had thought to bring a Doctor and nurse with us, and the poor man was quickly seen to in a private cabin whilst the criminals were placed in the brig.

The crewmen who had been assigned to row across the different lifeboats filled me in on what had happened - that the Captain had been shot, the engines had been stopped, and it had all been part of a plot led by Mr Hendriks the First Mate. Doctor Jones had figured it all out-

"No, no," an engineer had interrupted at this stage of the story. All the civilian passengers had been squeezed into cabins below decks, and everyone else stood around with hot soup and blankets discussing the events of the past day. It was just as well to have more eyes on the ocean, now night had truly fallen; we were still two lifeboats down. "He was Doctor Watson, you know the one who writes the Sherlock Holmes stories? That's what Mr Dekker said."

"Oh right! Doctor Watson then, he figured it all out," the first man corrected himself, then stopped again. "Wait, so that man with the broken foot, was that Sherlock Holmes?"

"Broken foot?" I echoed in some alarm. "Was he alright?"

"I saw him come up top just before our lifeboat went out," a man from the latest lifeboat piped in. "He looked a bit rough, but Doctor Jones or Watson or whoever he was, was giving him a once over."

If Watson was with him, that boded well. "And Doctor Watson figured out what was going on?"

The men started to talk rapidly in their native Dutch, clearly in disagreement about something.

"Sorry," one of them finally turned back to me to say. "None of us are sure. It was Mr Dekker who organised everything."

"And he is?"

"One of us, sir," the first engineer who had interrupted spoke again. "He led the capture of the criminals, while Mr van Es got the passengers organised."

I frowned; I still didn't understand where van Es fit in all of this. "Has Mr Dekker been picked up yet?"

"He would have gone on the last lifeboat. He'll know more than we do."

Our Captain shouted across to us - another lifeboat had been sighted - and everyone scrambled to help. I knew I would be of little help, so waited until there was more news of Sherlock and the Doctor.

* * *

I didn't have long to wait for the final lifeboat, but it didn't bring the conclusions I hoped for. As it drew closer I tried to spy Sherlock or the Doctor, but neither man was immediately apparent. It was clear, however, as they winched it upwards, that the passengers on this boat were far more bedraggled than anyone else had been.

"Are there any Doctors aboard?" The first man off the lifeboat called out in a strident, carrying voice. I assumed this was Mr Dekker. "We have an injured man here!"

Then I realised why I hadn't spotted Sherlock beforehand. He was bundled up in an assortment of blankets at the centre of the lifeboat, pale and still. Under Dekker's orders he was swiftly hoisted up and taken below decks to be seen to by our Doctor stirring a little as he was lifted, which I took to be a good sign. I made to follow after him, but of course he was not my only responsibility, so I turned to Dekker instead. The Dutchman was damp and shivering, although a warm blanket from one of the cabins had just been thrust upon him.

"Mr Dekker? I am Mycroft Holmes."

A spark of recognition came into his eyes. "The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter?"

I had about as much love for the Doctor's stories as Sherlock did, but in this instance it was useful to bypass useless introductions. "Doctor Watson, where is he?"

A dark shadow passed over his face. "He and Mr van Es were lowering us from _The Friesland_ into the sea. But just as they got started, there was a gunshot-"

"A gunshot?" I had thought, from what had been said, that van Es could be trusted. "How, if they were the only two aboard?"

He shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. We fell the rest of the way, most of us into the ocean, and when we finally had everyone back on the lifeboat, it was dark. We had drifted away, too far to see _The Friesland._"

I swallowed past a sudden lump in my throat. This couldn't be_..._

"We couldn't go back. Everyone was too cold from the ocean to waste time and your brother had hit his head again in the fall. There were too many lives at stake." He lowered his gaze. "They were good men, van Es and Watson both. I'm so sorry."

I patted his shoulder in a clumsy reassurance, unable to speak, and left him to catch up with his fellow crewmen. I would ask for further details later; for now I needed to see my brother.


	21. Adrift - Part 6

**A/N: **And the final, concluding part of the promised conclusion! Sorry this has stretched so incredibly long...

* * *

**From Book girl fan: one lace glove**

* * *

I entered Sherlock's cabin to find him in a peculiar face off against the medical staff. He stood on one side of the bed, two open wounds upon his head dripping blood into his eyes, and one foot raised slightly from the ground, looking as though a light breeze might knock him over. Doctor Henderson and Nurse Perrin stood on the other side of the bed, both with their hands raised in an expression of peace. I noted too that a full syringe was clutched in Henderson's left hand.

"Mr Holmes, please, it is simply a sedative to help-"

"Watson." Sherlock's voice was thin and tremulous. "Where is Doctor Watson?"

"I don't know any Doctor Watson!" Henderson exclaimed in frustration. "First we must see to your health, Mr Holmes, and then-"

"That will do," I cut in, and Sherlock fairly sagged with relief when he saw me stood in the doorway. "Sherlock, get back into bed. Doctor Henderson, no sedatives if you please."

Henderson tutted, but put his syringe away as Sherlock hesitantly sat back on the bed. I noted with approval that his ankle had already been neatly bound.

"Something has happened to Watson, hasn't it?" Sherlock asked me as Henderson set to replacing the soiled bandage on his head. "I remember... I remember a gunshot. Was he-?"

"I don't know." There was no point beating around the bush. "Neither he nor Mr van Es made it onto the lifeboat. Nurse, a bowl! Quickly!"

Perrin shoved a bowl into Sherlock's lap, which he retched into for a painful minute.

"Ugh... my head..." He moaned, but wiped his mouth on his sleeve and doggedly returned his unfocused gaze to mine. "We must find him Mycroft."

I pursed my lips. He knew as well as I that it took only minutes for a man to perish in such icy waters as these. But before I could voice my opinion, Mr Dekker popped his head around the door.

"Excuse me, Mr Holmes? And er-" he nodded to Sherlock, "Mr Holmes. But we've found something strange, and I think you might want to take a look?

* * *

Sherlock insisted he be allowed to join us, so Nurse Perrin bundled him up in warm clothes and made sure he had his cane which, I noted with a pang of sadness, was actually Doctor Watson's. Sherlock spotted my look of sympathy but did not rise to it, and we walked in sombre silence to the prow of the ship.

It was early morning by now and the wind had calmed, making it easier to see the long stream of dark material that drifted towards us on the waves. Our Captain came over and handed across a sopping wet, lace glove. "We don't know what to make of it, Sir."

Sherlock fairly snatched the glove from me and, after a brief examination, he waved it in triumph and exclaimed a loud, "Mycroft, Captain, we must follow this lace. I believe it will lead us straight to Watson and Mr van Es!"

The Captain looked doubtful, and I couldn't blame him. My brother looked half-mad, so dishevelled was he from his journey, and with his head bandaged as it was. But, he was still my brother, and so I barked,

"You heard him Captain - follow that lace!"

* * *

We travelled onward for about an hour, following the peculiar lace trail, and Sherlock filled in the remaining gaps in the story.

"Hendriks and the others were smuggling _kant _\- that is, lace," he finished, finally. He was leant against the railing, eyes darting to and fro as he scanned the distant ocean. I maintained a critical eye on him, for he did not look at all well, and I would not be surprised should he keel over at any moment.

"So you think this is a sign from the Doctor?"

"I hope so." He took a deep breath and tightened his grip on the railing, shifting weight from his injured ankle. "To think I put him through this and so much worse, after Reichenbach..."

"Don't think on that now," I ordered gruffly. "There will be time later, if and when you must-"

"Mycroft, look!" He interrupted, and pointed out to sea. "There, you see that?"

I squinted out and, indeed, my brother's keen eyes had seen what I had not - a distant raft, bobbing at the end of our peculiar trail. I fancied I could make out two figures perched upon it.

"Captain!" I bellowed, so loudly it made Sherlock jump. "We have sighted them!"

"Us too, Mr Holmes!" The Captain called back, already running back to the bridge. "Full speed ahead, chaps!"

* * *

"Doctor Watson? Doctor Watson look!"

I jolted from a doze, not quite sure when I had fallen asleep. It was early morning now, and the sea was calm; a welcome relief after the night Mr van Es and I had just had.

He peered concernedly at me. "I shouldn't have let you sleep. You look terribly pale."

"Lace isn't all that effective as a bandage," I joked half-heartedly, shifting upward with a wince as the movement jolted the wound to my arm. "I say, is that a ship?

Van Es beamed and helped sit me up against one of the boxes. "Your plan worked, Doctor!"

I laughed in giddy relief, and when I spotted the familiar figure waving frantically at me from the prow my laughter turned near hysterical.

"It's Holmes," I explained to van Es in a wheeze once I had gotten a handle on myself. "He is alright after all!"

"Well thank God for that," van Es grinned, and we waited together until the ship was close enough to rescue us.

* * *

"What happened to your arm?" was Holmes's immediate demand once van Es and I had been winched on board.

"What happened to your head?" was my pawky rejoinder, although now the tension of the night had finally eased I felt weaker than before, and probably slurred my words a little. "When I left you it needed only one dressing, and now you have two!"

"Why don't we get you both down to a cabin?" Mycroft suggested, before Holmes could reply. His face, I saw, was lined with strain and he cast several worried glances to his brother and in fact to me. "It is a pleasure to see you again Doctor Watson, but I do believe your arm needs examining?"

I nodded blearily in agreement. Mycroft offered his support which I accepted gratefully, for my legs were a trifle unsteady after so long huddled on that raft, and we went below deck to be seen by the Doctor.

* * *

"It was Hendriks," Watson explained once Doctor Henderson had seen to his arm and wrangled us both into bed with a promise that we would "rest up". "We thought he went with the others, those who escaped on the first lifeboat, but it seems he was betrayed. He had a terrible injury to the back of his head, which must have affected his aim, thank God."

"Thank God," I agreed fervently, for had it not been so we would have likely never seen my friend again. "So he snuck up and shot you, and then what?"

"I dropped my side of the pulley when the bullet winged my arm. There was a tussle, and Hendriks ended up in the ocean-"

"Good riddens," I muttered before I could stop myself, and Mycroft shushed me impatiently. "Sorry, do go on Watson. Then what happened?"

"Well, we were stuck. It was dark, we didn't know what had happened to the lifeboat, and _The Friesland_ was nearly sunk. My arm was bleeding and van Es used some of the lace in the boxes the smugglers had left to bind it, which gave me an idea. Mr van Es is a resourceful chap, and managed to break apart some of those boxes and use the rope from the pulleys to lash it all together."

"So you got out onto the sea and used the lace to make a trail for us to follow," Mycroft breathed. "Very impressive, Doctor!"

Watson made to wave away the praise, but of course his wounded arm prevented him. "It was mostly down to van Es, really. I just lolled about and gave orders. Truthfully I'm amazed the plan with the lace worked, I didn't think anyone would bother looking for us."

"Watson, really!"

He chuckled at my indignant outburst. "I meant only that I thought you would all assume we had perished as _The Friesland _went down. Most sane men would have reached that conclusion, after all."

"We must be thankful that my brother is not entirely sane then," Mycroft inputted firmly and called, at a rapping on the door, "Come in!"

It was Mr van Es, looking a great deal warmer and better rested than when we had first hauled him up from the raft. Mycroft stood to offer him his chair, but he shook his head.

"I only wanted to return this." He held out Watson's revolver and my friend accepted his trusty firearm with a warm word of thanks.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Before you leave, Mr van Es, I owe you an apology on behalf of the British government. And Sherlock, John-" Watson looked surprised at the use of his first name, but did not comment on it, "-I owe you an apology on my own behalf. This entire mission has been an unmitigated disaster, and would have been made far worse if not for the quick thinking and resourcefulness of all the men in this room. I shall make efforts to thank Mr Dekker for his own part in things later."

"Please, Mr Holmes, don't apologise," van Es responded earnestly. "Whether shot in the engine room or drowned, I should have died along with the other civilians on the ship if you hadn't placed your brother and his friend on _The Friesland_. Well worth the stress involved, wouldn't you say?"

"Hmm." Mycroft sounded unconvinced, and I expected that after all this hullabaloo he wouldn't leave his Whitehall rooms for many years. "Well, thank you for that Mr van Es. Can I walk you back to your room? On the way we can send a wire to your government and let them know all that's happened."

They made their goodbyes, leaving Watson and I alone in our cabin.

"Watson," I began haltingly, for expressing emotion had never been a particular strong point of mine. "When I woke up to find you gone it made me realise some of what you must have felt, when I-"

A soft snore cut me short, and I looked over to see Watson sound asleep. I huffed a rueful laugh and reached over to turn the gaslight between our two beds down. Now we were both safe and sound, perhaps I should also get some rest.


	22. Chewed Slippers

**From Winter Winks 221: 'Toby, did you chew my slippers again?'**

* * *

"Toby, did you chew my slippers again?"

I had never seen a dog look so guilty, although the ragged slipper which dropped from his mouth _was_ rather damning evidence. I picked it up with a sigh - I had lost many a pair of slippers this way - but couldn't find it in me to be angry at the hound.

"Are you hungry?"

His tail set to wagging and I chuckled.

"Come along then."

The house was cold, more noticeable without slippers to keep my feet warm, and once I had filled Toby's bowl in the kitchen I set to filling the fireplace with kindling. After it was lit I pulled up a chair, relaxing as the warmth seeped into my bones. These days I spent most of my time either here or in my study. The rest of the house felt too big, without her there to help fill it.

"Mary was right about you, you know," I told the old hound, who was curled up at his usual spot by my feet. "You were an excellent investment."

Wide, brown eyes looked up at me as if to say, _well obviously_, and I leant back in my chair with a contented sigh.


	23. Pets

**A/N: **Continuation of last. Warnings for the death of a well-loved, if technically fictional, pet. Please go and look at my own pet, (username: buddy_horne), on Instagram if you need cheering up after reading (or would rather skip the reading and look at cute pictures of a dog instead!). He is a hound, much like Toby would have been.

* * *

**From V Tsuion: Pets**

* * *

After my three years of travelling the continent, meetings with my brother became more regular. We never overtly discussed this, but I took it as a sign that that brief period where he thought I really _was _dead had shaken him more than he would say.

Thus it was that, the day after the successful conclusion of one of my cases, I joined Mycroft for lunch and told him the details. He had it solved within an instant, of course, but nodded along as I told him how everything had played out.

"Doctor Watson wasn't with you?" he enquired toward the end of my story.

I shrugged a touch unhappily. It was true that Watson hadn't joined me for this particular case, having sent a note begging off at the last minute. When I told Mycroft this he became pensive.

"A lot has changed whilst you were away." He gestured to the waiter for the bill. "But it isn't like him to cancel last minute. Usually he is reliable to a tee."

I frowned at him. I was well aware of _that _already.

* * *

The last time I had visited the Watson household was when I came and asked for his help during the Moriarty business. It looked much the same, although the gardens and front doorstep were less maintained than they had been then. I could hardly blame him for that, following the death of his wife.

I rang the bell. I was unsurprised when Watson answered it himself - I knew he kept a minimal staff these days - but _was_ shocked to see his eyes red and expression heavy with grief.

"Holmes?" He seemed almost guilty to see me there. "What are you doing here? If you need something for your case,.."

"No, no not the case," I said brusquely, and stepped inside before he could turn me away. His wife had died a year and a half ago, so it wasn't an unpleasant anniversary that had upset him. What could it be? "Simply a social call. Watson..." I frowned and glanced around his hallway. "When did you get a dog?"

He gaped at me, then shook his head with a rueful smile. "Time has not withered your abilities Holmes. We bought Toby just after Mary's condition was diagnosed."

"Toby?"

"Yes, Holmes, the very same." His smile faded. "The truth is he became rather ill a few days ago."

Ah. This explained much. "He must be rather old by now, I suppose?"

"Oh yes, yes." He cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "Ancient, really, for a dog. It was only a matter of time, but he was something of a comfort to me after Mary..." He cleared his throat again and forced another unconvincing smile. "Anyway. I will not be much company today, Holmes."

"That is no bother." I hung my coat on the rack in his hallway, hoping I was not being too presumptuous. "May I see him?"

"Of- of course," he stammered, in some shock. "He's in the kitchen by the fire."

"A favourite spot of his?"

Watson cast me a curious look. "I'm surprised to find you interested, Holmes. I thought you might think me silly, or sentimental."

"Sentimental! This hound has helped me solve many a case, Watson, a true and trusted colleague in my work." We came to the kitchen and I knelt down beside poor Toby, whose tail wagged feebly when he spotted me from where he lay prone on the floor. "Will it be long now?"

"I shouldn't think so." Watson knelt beside me and placed a hand on Toby's side, which rose and fell with every wheezing breath. "I gave him a mild sedative, just before you arrived. Hopefully he shall just slip away...Stupid, isn't it, how attached we get to our pets?"

I patted Toby's head fondly. "Not a pet so loyal and true as this one. I'm glad to think he spent his last few years with those who loved him."

"It was Mary's suggestion." Watson smiled, genuinely this time, as he remembered. "We couldn't have children, and I think-" His breath hitched again. "I think she wanted me to have some company, after she was gone. She remembered Toby from when we first met."

"A wise woman." I had never been overly fond of animals, but Watson had always had a soft spot for them. I was sure Toby had been just the comfort to him that his wife had intended. "Although I'm sure there were more selfish motives for bringing a dog into the house."

Watson laughed, a pleasant and relieving sound. "Oh yes, she doted on him. I don't think you have ever seen a dog so well-fed Holmes. We had to put him on a diet!"

Toby whined, almost as if in protest, and Watson shushed him gently. "That's it... Good dog..." Watson looked up at me. "You really don't have to stay, Holmes. I'm sure you have more important things to do."

"None so important as this," I replied without hesitation, although I did get to my feet. "It won't be so good as Mrs Hudson's, but shall I make us some tea?"

"It may be a long night," Watson conceded. "If you're certain?"

"Absolutely."

I bustled around the kitchen and prepared the tea as Watson continued to murmur a soft litany of reassurances to Toby. And if, when the poor creature finally passed on later that night, we each shed a tear in his memory, then it was only what the faithful hound deserved.


	24. First Footing

**A/N: **Happy new year, one and all!

* * *

**From V Tsuion: Someone participates in a custom that isn't their own for someone else**

* * *

It was Mrs Hudson's idea, or so Doctor Watson insisted whenever asked, but Mr Holmes maintained that it was the Doctor's romantic sensibilities that had led to the observance of this particular tradition. Both Watson and Hudson had Scottish blood, so it was bound to be one of them, and Lestrade's personal theory was that they had conspired.

He was glad to have been asked along for New Year's Eve at Baker Street, although he had expected to be _inside _221B rather than standing on Baker Street itself, watching his breath form white wisps in the chilly December air. Several of Mr Holmes's so-called "Irregulars" had also been invited to see the first footing, and milled around eating Mrs Hudson's fresh-baked mince pies.

"Right so you have everything Holmes?" Doctor Watson handed across the items as he listed them. "Coal, shortbread, salt..."

"I don't see why it has to be me," Holmes grumbled as his arms filled. "Lestrade has dark hair!"

"But I don't live here Mr Holmes," Lestrade interjected quickly. "Wouldn't that be bad luck?"

"And more to the point, you agreed to it Holmes," Watson added. "Now Mrs Hudson, have you the bun?"

"Here it is!" Mrs Hudson handed a black bun across across to Holmes, along with a glass of amber liquid. "And the dram of whisky."

"A dram?!" Holmes exclaimed, holding it up to the level of his eyes. "Why, the glass is nearly full!"

Mrs Hudson's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Well it is New Year's Eve, Mr Holmes."

And as she spoke, Big Ben began to chime across London.

"That's it, that's it! Happy new year everyone!" Watson exclaimed, and a ragged cheer went up from the rest of the crowd. "Holmes, get in there quick man! Before we all catch our death!"

With a long-suffering sigh, Holmes stomped in the door of 221B and went inside, eliciting another cheer from the rest.

"In you go everyone!" Mrs Hudson called and, as everyone rushed in to what promised to be a warm night of revelry, the window to the upstairs living room was thrown open and the opening strain of _Auld Lang Syne _piped out from Mr Holmes's violin. Lestrade smiled to himself, for it seemed that Mr Holmes was not quite so opposed to this Scottish new year as he had made out.


	25. Villain at the Concert

**From mrspencil: a villain is spotted at a concert**

* * *

I had thought the concert to be rather enjoyable, but Holmes was apparently unimpressed. As the audience applauded he patted my shoulder and jerked his head behind him, in indication that we should leave swiftly.

"Is everything alright?" I questioned him once we were in a cab home, one he had near sprinted to hail down. "You didn't enjoy it?"

"It was fine," he said shortly. "Shall I drop you home?"

"I suppose so." I hesitated. "Holmes you would tell me if something were wrong? You seem put out by something."

He shifted awkwardly in his seat, wringing his hands. "I simply saw someone I didn't wish to speak with. It is nothing to concern yourself with."

I did not push the subject, but later was talking to Inspector Lestrade who had attended the same concert.

"I did notice a fellow though," he said thoughtfully, once we had finished our discussion of the music. "Could swear he was glaring daggers straight at Mr Holmes."

"Oh? What did he look like?"

"Didn't get a clear look," Lestrade answered. "Tall, thin fellow, looked a bit like an academic although who could really say. I only thought I would mention it because I know Mr Holmes has a tendency to get himself into trouble."

_Too true, _I thought to myself and bid the inspector adieu. The next day Sherlock Holmes entered my consulting room, and I learned all about the infamous Professor Moriarty.


	26. A Supernatural Warning

**From ThatSassyCaptain: Holmes has sought to disprove ghost stories and fantastic legends all his career. Only, this one is true and this is how he found out.**

* * *

"I do not believe in such things," the grey-eyed Englishman snapped at her in near-impeccable German. "Find someone else to fool with your tricks."

"It's not a trick," the young girl insisted and grabbed his hand to keep him from leaving. "I only have a message for you."

He snatched his hand back. "I won't pay you."

"I don't want money," she sneered, tempted to leave him to his fate, but she had learnt through experience that this would be a mistake. "I have a warning for you."

He hesitated then, and she could see the doubt in his eyes. He was on the run, that she knew, but she didn't care about that. "A warning from who? Who do you work for?"

She sighed. For someone so intelligent, he was remarkably narrow-minded. "I work for no one but myself and the spirits. The warning is from Mary."

He scoffed. "Mary? One of the most common names there is. And you chose Mary rather than Maria or Marie because you can see I am English. You are resourceful, I will grant you that. Are you _sinti?_"

"You ask too many questions," she told him bluntly, "_Listen_, for once. Mary's warning is this: 'John is in trouble. Go home.'"

It was interesting that he hadn't risen to the name Mary because it was so common, but the name _John _had him instantly on edge. Of course Mary had said it would be so, and the spirits were rarely wrong.

"Is that a threat?" He looked around wildly, not unlike an animal in captivity. "Who sent you?"

"It's a _warning _from _Mary," _she repeated impatiently. "'John is in trouble. Go home'. That's all she told me. Goodbye, Mr Holmes."

He paled to his lips, and that was what convinced her that he would heed the warning and go home - wherever that might be. She skipped away, pleased that her work was done.


	27. Dr John H Claus

**From W. Y. Traveller: One of the 221B residents goes undercover**

* * *

I had been against the idea when it was first proposed, but now I saw Watson decked out in the red suit and boots, I could not help but laugh in delight.

"What?" He lifted away his white beard to inspect himself anxiously. "Is something wrong with it?"

"No, not at all," I chuckled. "The effect is... impressive!"

"Ah." He settled his beard back onto his face, so that the only part of him someone might recognise were his eyes. "You think I'll fool them?"

"Hmm." I tilted my head and considered what I might think if _I_ were an Irregular. "The costume is up to scratch, certainly."

"But my performance is not?" He suggested wryly. "I told you it wouldn't be. Maybe you should do it."

"No, thank you," I responded firmly. I cared for those children in my employ, but I could never countenance dressing up as Father Christmas for them; some things were too much, even for me. "I think they shall be so carried away with the effect of the costume that all you will need is to change your voice somehow."

"Whit abit thes? Am nae sure- What is so funny, Holmes?" He dropped back from a Scotsman into a disapproving Englishman as soon as he saw me smiling.

"It's just I have usually only heard you speak in your native Scots on a handful of occasions. Mostly when you have had a touch too much to drink..."

He blushed beneath his beard, so that his face matched his costume. "Ahem, yes, well. Do you think it will work? A Scottish Santa Claus?"

"Well," I said with an affected graveness. "There is only one way to find out. Are you ready to go undercover?"

He lifted the bag of presents we had wrapped with Mrs Hudson the evening before, and nodded grimly. In his Scottish accent he ordered, "Send 'em up, Mr Holmes."

"Straight away, Mr Claus," I replied, and went to do just that.


	28. Principle Vices

**From Wordwielder: lazy days**

* * *

"_I keep a bull pup," I said, "and I object to rows because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices when I'm well, but those are the principal ones at present."_

Dr John H Watson, 'A Study in Scarlet'

* * *

The bull pup, I soon realised with relief, was not an actual dog, but a euphemism for Watson's temper. It didn't flare up often; a slam of the door when the weather made his old wounds act up, or a sharp look when our landlady nagged him for not eating enough. He also said his nerves were shaken, but for the most part seemed quite a steady chap. He might disappear into his room during thunderstorms, but he hardly batted an eyelid when I asked if I might practice my shooting indoors. He _had _suggested I consult Mrs Hudson first, and then smiled a tad too smugly when she told me off for the bullet holes, but I suppose I couldn't blame him for that.

He had also called himself extremely lazy.

"Another lazy day," he would tell me self-consciously over the meals we shared in the early days of our acquaintance. "Read the paper, slept a little..."

This was another euphemism of course. His 'lazy days' were when the rain and cold were too much for him and he could not leave the house. Or when he slept well past noon to recoup on the sleep he had lost to night terrors the evening before. As time went on his health improved and his lazy days grew rarer, but the phrase remained a part of our shared vocabulary.

"A lazy day," he would say to me when news of a family bereavement arrived in the post, and I would spend the evening playing his favourite tunes upon my violin.

"A lazy day," I would say to him when struck by a particularly black mood, and he would come read his book in silent solidarity by the fire.

But truly, he misled me on a number of points in that first meeting of ours. In addition to the bullpup, the unsteady nerves and the so-called laziness, he also mentioned "another set of vices" when well - but he has been well for a number of years now, and I am yet to see a single one!


	29. Under

**A/N: **Bit of a silly one for you all - who knew there were so many phrases that incorporated the word 'under'?

* * *

**From Wordwielder: Under**

* * *

"Watson? But why has Watson gone undercover?"

Holmes hushed me. "Keep it under your hat, Lestrade!"

"Excuse me?"

"Keep it under _wraps_, there's a good chap." He waved over to a barmaid for a round of drinks. "Now, it's about this last case you sent my way. You see the pub that was robbed was under lock and key, but it was under new management." The barmaid handed across our drinks and Holmes nodded his gratitude. He looked right odd himself, dressed in an old sailor's garbs and with bushy eyebrows that weren't his own. Next to him I felt rather exposed, having not been warned and so having worn my usual clothes. "So it must have been an inside job. We went and spoke to Dennis, one of my Irregulars-"

"Those street urchins you've taken under your wing?"

"The very same. Now Dennis sometimes takes work at the butchers opposite the pub, and he saw one of the new barmaids speaking to a Mr. Waterman."

"You think it was an inside job then? She was under his thumb?"

"Exactly. Now don't look over, but there is Watson with Mr. Waterman now."

I took a long swig of beer, and out of the corner of my eye I saw the Doctor enter with a large, bearded man. Watson looked a tad hot under the collar, I reckoned.

"He alright?"

"A little under the weather," Holmes said brusquely. "But Mr Waterman likes to drink, and my tolerance is lower than Watson's."

I smiled to myself, for I had seen first-hand that Watson could drink Holmes under the table. And Mr Holmes under the influence was quite a thing to see.

"Wait a moment." Holmes swung his head back and forth around the pub, suddenly agitated. "That doesn't make sense. He shouldn't be here yet..."

I looked again from the corner of my eye; Mr Waterman was chatting and drinking with Watson, whose coughing I could hear all the way from our table in the opposite corner.

"We appear to be labouring under a misapprehension," Holmes murmured under his breath. "We hoped to light a fire under Mr Waterman... but I fear that it is Mr Amberly who has pulled the rug out from under our feet!"

"Mr Amberly?" I hissed back, because that was the owner of the last pub which had been robbed. "How do you reckon that?"

But before Holmes could answer, Amberly himself had entered, and strode straight up to where Doctor Watson sat with Mr Waterman. Beside me, Holmes blanched.

"Quickly Lestrade!" He spoke in an urgent undertone. "Go up to Watson and say you need to speak to him - that you're about to go under the knife and need his advice as a surgeon!"

"What?"

"Just say anything - otherwise he may well end up six feet under!"

So I hurried over, not bothering to ask why Mr Holmes couldn't go, because when he wanted to he could be quite domineering.

"Excuse me, Doctor, W- uh..." I stammered, not sure if Watson were using his real name or not and under no illusion that my acting skills were under par to say the best. As the three men - Amberly, Watson and Waterman - turned their eyes upon me, I felt rather as though I'd been placed under a microscope.

"Watson," Watson replied, quickly, "Yes, what is it?"

"Well uh..." What was it Holmes had said? "I'm about to go in for surgery you see, so-"

"Hang on." Waterman squinted at me. "I know you. You're that Inspector from the Yard!"

The pub went a little quieter at that, and if I felt under the microscope before, it was nothing to now. I gulped.

"Lestrade, Watson, get down!"

I tell you, I must have been born under a lucky star, because I felt the bullet practically graze my hat as I ducked. It was Holmes who'd yelled, and him who'd shot at Mr Amberly, which was just as well because he was a big bloke and had been about ready to thump me. Holmes's shot didn't hit anybody, but the distraction was enough for me to grab Doctor Watson and run.

We were nearly out of the pub, the Doctor wheezing with whatever illness he'd picked up, when more shots rang out from behind us - we were under fire! But Mr Holmes soon appeared as if from nowhere and yanked us out a little side entrance. Under cover of darkness, we fled through London, supporting Watson whose dodgy leg kept buckling under the strain.

"I am alright, you know," Watson panted, trying in vain to extricate himself from our joint grip as we chivvied him onward.

"Sorry Doctor," I told him between my own gasping breaths - who knew I could run so fast under pressure? "But I don't think you'd make it away under your own steam!"

"Alright, but under protest..." He didn't sound as if he had the energy to protest, poor man.

Finally, we deemed it safe enough to stop in a little side alley in Lambeth, and had the chance to regain our breath.

"So it was Amberly." Watson was the first to speak. "Under our noses the whole time!"

"I thought there was something wrong with him," I said. "He got under my skin..."

"He certainly doesn't let the grass grow under his feet," Holmes warned me. "That will be his second robbery in a week."

"Don't worry Mr Holmes," I responded grimly. "Under the circumstances, we can arrest him for attempted assault in under a few hours, then take it from there."

"Sorry to have put you under the gun like that," Holmes added apologetically. "But I had to clear our escape route."

"Water under the bridge," I reassured him. "Anyway I'm used to it by now. Nothing new under the sun with you two, is there?"


End file.
